


On the Stroke of Twelve

by Synchrony



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Cinderella, Dwarf Bilbo, Gandalf is a Troll, HRBB14, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Party, Potential mild body horror, Suspected abuse, Transformation, but no actual abuse as Thorin has the wrong end of the stick, hobbit reverse big bang 2014
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchrony/pseuds/Synchrony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins is a perfectly respectable gentlehobbit whose adventuring days are firmly behind him, thank you very much. He has missed nothing over the past five peaceful years, except for company, excitement, and the chance to finally meet a dwarf.</p>
<p>It’s then, of course, that an entire colony of dwarves happen to end up in the Shire, on the road to a new life in Belegost and eager to celebrate the Prince’s coming of age ball. Hot on their heels is Gandalf, offering Bilbo a spectacular chance: to attend the dwarven ball as one of them.</p>
<p>In retrospect, agreeing was never going to have been the best option to keep his quiet life. Especially after he runs into King Thorin— literally— and manages to be just a little too convincing in his new form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf was the cause of it all, of course, as he had been with most of the trouble in Bilbo’s life so far, but he wasn’t where it all started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My entry for the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang! 
> 
> This is based on [ewebean's](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/) "Bilbo-as-a-dwarf" Cinderella AU prompt. The story line of her artwork will differ (at time of posting it's not up just yet, but I'll be adding a link as soon as it's there), so make sure to check it out! Thanks for the artwork and the prompt, ewebean, it's been loads of fun to write!
> 
> Also, massive thanks to [serenbach](http://archiveofourown.org/users/serenbach/pseuds/serenbach) for not only betaing the fic, but also talking me through all of my panic and angst over plot, characters, (too many) words, and Khuzdul for the last couple of months!
> 
> And of course, thank you to the mods at [HRBB14](http://hobbitreversebang.tumblr.com/) for running the challenge!
> 
>  
> 
> For anyone who would like to know, I'm placing this at roughly five years before the events of The Hobbit would have happened (or could still happen).

Gandalf was the cause of it all, of course, as he had been with most of the trouble in Bilbo’s life so far, but he wasn’t where it all started.

Nor did it really begin with the dwarrowdams at the market that morning. In the few short weeks they had been in the Shire, they must have already become so used to the hobbits exchanging little more than basic niceties with them that it would probably never have occurred to them that one such hobbit might be eavesdropping with any kind of interest beyond fleeting gossip. In fact, if Bilbo had been any other hobbit, their assumptions would probably have been entirely correct.

No. The seeds for that day had already been sown long ago, because where it really began was with Bilbo’s mother.

\-----

It was a well-known fact that Belladonna Took had spent most of her tweens travelling far and wide with her two sisters. She has walked through the bustling markets of Bree, sailed down the Brandywine as far as the sea itself, and even seen first-hand the wonders of Rivendell. Whenever she had returned, she had holed herself up in her room with her pipe and a good supply of ink and parchment, and had spent weeks on end writing up her accounts of her journies.

But her writing has all seemed very bland to her— just black words on white parchment, nothing to immediately grab the reader’s attention in the way she wanted to, to show them straight away the wonders she wanted to share. So she had strolled right on across the Shire to enlist the help of Bungo Baggins, who she remembered from their childhood had a particular knack for drawing.

Serious, business-like discussions over tea became afternoon strolls in search of similar sights to the ones Belladonna wanted in the pictures, and then turned into long, laughing anecdotes about her travels and all that she had missed in the Shire whilst she was away. Eventually came an evening where Bungo was struggling to form the question he so desperately wanted to ask, only for Belladonna to cut in with “Are you asking me to marry you? Because I was about to ask you the same thing, and my answer’s yes.”

Bilbo had learnt all of this later, of course, in between his mother’s stories about the places she had seen, and the Men and Elves she had met along the way. Some of Bilbo’s earliest memories were of cosy evenings in the sitting room of Bag End, after his mother had helped him scrub away the dirt and twigs of a day playing in the woods and they had all sat down to the supper his father had made. His mother would settle down in front of the fire with him, spreading her journals across the floor to show him the adventures she’d had, whilst his father would watch and listen fondly from where he was sitting and smoking his pipe in the armchair nearby. Bilbo found himself thinking of those times quite often nowadays, now that the peace and quiet of the smial was his alone. 

Even with her adventuring days behind her, Belladonna still seemed to keep up a regular enough correspondence with Gandalf, if the amount of parties and celebrations he happened to stop by in time for was anything to go by. At first Bilbo had always thought of him only for his fireworks, but it hadn’t been too long before he’d caught the pointed looks his father shot him whenever the wizard showed up, or the murmurs amongst the townspeople about Gandalf leading young Hobbit lads and lasses off to adventures.

Then one day, not long after Bungo had passed away, Gandalf had turned up on their doorstep with an invitation to a festival in some far flung town of men. Belladonna had given him a smile that was still sad around the edges and had shaken her head. “Not today, I’m afraid, my friend. Looks like time has caught up with me at last.” She had said, knocking her cane against the knee that had been troubling her over the past few years. There had been a pause, until, tapping out her pipe with a casualness that must have been feigned, she had added, “My Bilbo, though... he’s still young and healthy. You’ll go and help Gandalf on his travels, won’t you lad?”

That had been the first journey, but it certainly hadn’t been the last. Every time he had returned to Bag End, Gandalf had been back at their door within a matter of months, with some new matter of urgency that Bilbo absolutely had to help him see to right away. He travelled to towns bigger than any the Shire had to offer. He swapped stories with Men in inns, and even dined with the Elves of Rivendell, who were happy to welcome him as a guest when they found out who his mother was. He saw markets, festivals, rivers and mountains. He started to learn Sindarin. The world was vast and wonderful, and he drank it all in eagerly.

One of the best parts of his journies, however, was returning home to share his new stories. Belladonna was always eager to hear about what he had done, and how the world had changed since she had stopped venturing beyond the borders of the Shire. Since Bilbo was tracing so many of her old paths, there was a lot to update her on. Still, there was one thing that she had never managed to do, and each time he departed she would make sure to hug him and say “Go and find a dwarf out there, would you? They've got to be out there somewhere. It can't be that hard!”

And Bilbo would nod and agree and set forth with it fixed in his mind that this time, definitely, would be the time he would finally meet a dwarf. His mother had met so many people and learnt so many things, and yet in all her travels had never managed to meet a dwarf or learn much about dwarvish culture than what Gandalf or the Men could tell her, or the dwarvish works they could show her.

“They're an incredibly private folk, so they say, and proud too.” she had told him time and again. “Hole themselves up in their mountains and get on with their craft— such beautiful things they make, too! They say they don't speak much with outsiders, but still... I'd like to learn more about them. At least a little bit first hand.”

But it seemed that there had been good reason for Belladonna's lack of luck, because try as he might, Bilbo had never managed to set eyes on a dwarf either. He had heard tell of them once or twice in the towns of Men, but it was always of the odd traveller or two just passing through en route to the Iron Hills or the Blue Mountains. And so each time he returned and shook his head sadly, and Belladonna would smile and sigh and tell him “Never mind, maybe next time.”

And then, one day, he had returned home to find Belladonna gravely sick. She had passed away by the following morning, as though she had just been waiting for Bilbo to return one last time before she could go.

That had been the last time he had returned home. When Gandalf had arrived again some three months later, Bilbo received him as he would any guest but had flatly refused to go with him again. “My place is here, don’t you understand that?” he had said, the bitter grief and loneliness welling up inside him and threatening to break through any attempt at politeness. “I belong here, not off gallivanting around the world!”

Gandalf had accepted his word and had left. Even Bilbo had been surprised, once he’d had chance to consider it over the following few days. Soon enough, though, the regularity of everyday life claimed him back for its own, and he had had no chance to think on it further.

And if he ever caught himself gazing longingly out of the window to the far edges of the Shire, or tracing his fingers lightly over the spines of the travel journals where they sat on the shelf, or lost deep in thought as he considered how very quiet it was in his sitting room with so many empty chairs each night, well, that was nobody’s business but his own, thank you very much. 

\-----

So, all things considered, it seemed almost inevitable that dwarves turning up in the Shire would lead to some kind of disruption to his usual quiet existence. Really, his whole life may well have been leading up to this one very evening.

Of course, none of that truly occurred to Bilbo until later, when he had the time and distance to sit down with a good cup of tea and really think things through. Right now he was a little more preoccupied with the awful way his bones ground against each other as his body twisted, the strange prickling feeling of being stretched out in all directions at once, and the strong suspicion that, somewhere beyond the thick smoke and crackling bright flashes, Gandalf was laughing at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to mention that this is actually my fourteenth fic posted to AO3, because I'm a massive nerd and think it's fitting somehow that it's a Hobbit one!
> 
> I'll be staggering the chapters over the next few days, so look out for more!


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There's no good lingering on it_ , he told himself firmly more than once, _there's no way to go and that's that_. If he really wanted to find out more about dwarves, the best option was still to actually try to encounter some of them and get talking, not wasting time idly sighing over some gathering that he couldn’t attend.
> 
> But it didn't stop him from wondering what exactly he would be missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of stunned by the views, bookmarks and kudos so far, thank you!
> 
> Just as a quick pre-emptive note, I haven't seen BOTFA yet and won't be able to go until the weekend, so please no spoilers in the comments. 
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](http://synchronyshattered.tumblr.com/), so this is where you'll be able to hear the angsting coming from once I have seen it.
> 
> But in the meantime...

By the time that morning came around, it had already been five years since Bilbo had seen Gandalf.  
  
Bilbo was out of his front door by ten o'clock, basket in hand, the same as every week. His routine ran like clockwork. Fridays were set aside to help old Holman and his new young apprentice in the garden. Mondays were spent at his desk catching up on correspondence. Sunday afternoons were time for a walk. Evenings were dedicated to all the reading that he meant to do. Today was Wednesday, which meant market.  
  
It was a quiet, peaceful, orderly life, just the sort a respectable gentlehobbit ought to lead and so utterly different from the chaotic rush of earlier years. It was the sort of life that might just— possibly, eventually— tamp down completely on all those mutterings about Mad Baggins running off to far flung corners of Middle Earth which cropped up even now, several years after any running had actually taken place.  
  
Even the thought of the whisperings made Bilbo sigh inwardly. For a people so fond of home, Hobbits certainly did like the intrigue of a good scandal, and Bilbo's adventures had become a staple go to subject in the quieter times between inheritances and hedgerow disputes and the odd elopement here and there. Of course, everyone was far too polite to dream of actually saying things like "What would your poor parents have thought?" or "You've a lot to make up for now you've stopped gallivanting off with Gandalf", but it was tiring to know that they clearly thought it, even when it came in the form of pointed remarks about how respectable his life was now.  
  
That was the first thing that had struck him when Holman had told him in grave, hushed tones that dwarves had been seen heading into the Shire: the cool relief of _well, at least now I'll have some peace and quiet for a while_ , which had of course lasted for all of a moment before the fact had truly sunk in.  
  
Dwarves.  
  
 _Dwarves._  
  
Here in the _Shire_ , of all places!  
  
That evening was the first time Bilbo had picked up his mother's travel journals in ages, and he had poured over them until the embers had died out in the grate. He had then set out first thing in the morning to try to gather more information about what on earth was happening. Lily Proudfoot had told him she had seen then along the road, hundreds, no, thousands of dwarves of all shapes and sizes, with pack ponies and wagons laden high with all their worldly goods. Bilbo had feigned the appropriate amount of shock and awe, whilst secretly doubting Lily's ability to count. His own cousin Primula had heard they were just stopping for a few weeks in search of work and rest before carrying on their way, she said, before adding somewhat worriedly that more than a few of them had seemed weary and hungry. Bilbo had patted her hand consolingly, her concern reminding him why she was one of his favourite relatives. It was the children in the group that had made the Mayor so eager to allow them to stay, the Miller said, although of course that was all a trick because everyone knew that dwarves sprang fully grown from stone. Bilbo has ignored him, and didn't think that anyone would have begrudged him that. Nobody liked the Miller.  
  
Within a few days, the dwarves had become a visible presence throughout the Shire. He often saw them in groups of two or three, travelling to the forges or trading in the marketplace. He'd heard that some of them had even been into the Green Dragon once or twice, but he'd never been lucky enough to encounter them when he'd ventured down to investigate. In three weeks since they had arrived, he had made no more progress than to catch sight from afar of their beards and boots.  
  
It was frustrating and, quite frankly, ridiculous to have dwarves living practically on his doorstep and for him still to have never had a conversation with any of them. More than once he had had a good mind to hunt high and low in his smial for some piece of work or other than needed doing— surely there must be a holey pail or a broken spade _somewhere_ in his home! And yet he always stopped himself before he could actually start, remembering his mother's tales about the beautiful crafts she had seen that dwarven hands had wrought: the exquisite jewellery, the wonderful toys, the magnificent blades. What an insult, then, to be reduced to mending buckets and garden tools! Certainly they must have been in need of the work, but Bilbo found himself worrying about offending them in his presumption. There was likely no way they would ever warm to him if he started off on the wrong foot, no matter how well intentioned.  
  
The market was its usual hive of activity, and Bilbo immediately set about his usual route, stocking up on eggs and bread and meat, exchanging the usual greetings and pleasantries with those he met, and trying not to stare openly at the few dwarves he saw heading between stalls. It was such a normal morning that he went about his business almost without thinking, right up until he was very nearly done and the word 'ball' crept into his ear.  
  
Bilbo looked around automatically. At the next plot over sat two female dwarves behind a small stall laden with jewellery. There were no customers at their stall, although one or two hobbits did linger in looking as they passed by. The dwarves were keeping busy however, working away as they chatted. One, seemingly a little older with grey streaks in her brown hair, was wearing an eyeglass and focusing on linking some kind of intricate chain, whilst the other, with her blonde beard elaborately braided, was intently working away with her pliers, forming loop after loop in a long stretch of wire.  
  
It was the blonde dwarf who was talking, and Bilbo heard her continue, "— of course, so he's been too busy to come to the market today."  
  
"Shame, that. I hear his cooking's been popular with the folk here." the brunette dwarf replied, "Bet that's been a nice earner for them, especially with all those young ones. Pass those cutters, would you, Siri?"  
  
The younger dwarf paused for a moment to do so, then carried on with her wirework as she agreed, "True. But still, what an honour to be cooking for the prince's own ball! And I hear Princess Dis herself asked him to help!"  
  
Bilbo glanced back around to find the stall owner still deep in conversation with the customer ahead of him. He had already picked out the beans and potatoes that he wanted to purchase, but there was a whole array of different vegetables here that he had barely glanced at. Surely nobody would think it unusual if he stood here a while longer, considering whether to add to what he already had? Surely he was entitled to do that as much as the next hobbit! And if he happened to catch one or two more snippets of conversation from the jewellery makers nearby, then surely that was just coincidental.  
  
It crossed his mind that his mother wouldn’t have stood around dithering, pretending to inspect vegetables that she had no intention of buying. She would have marched right on over to the dwarves, shot them a bright, winning smile and introduced herself. If anyone had ever stood a chance at charming so secretive a people, without a doubt it had been her! Unfortunately though, Bilbo— unlike his mother— was a Baggins in more than just name, no matter what his wilder early years may have suggested. Generation upon generation of careful, cautious Bagginses had passed on their propriety and their wariness of the unknown to Bilbo, where it knitted itself deep into his bones and warred constantly with— and, nowadays, often won over— his mother’s Tookish influence.  
  
So, as it was, Bilbo was frustrated but not all that surprised by the way he seemed to be rooted firmly to the spot, sorting absently through misshapen vegetables with far more enthusiasm that he actually would have had if he’d intended to buy anything, and shooting quick, furtive glances at the chatting dwarves from the corner of his eye.  
  
Her companion looked suitably impressed. "Well! Anyone offered that chance would be a fool to turn it down. Even if Bombur's reputation precedes him already, it'll stand him in good stead once we arrive at Belegost. I have to say, it's his cooking I'm most looking forward to today. Those pies of his are fantastic."

"Won't you be dancing, Torda?"  
  
"With my old knees?" the brunette dwarf tutted. "Not likely! Though I expect to see you up there with that lad of yours tonight. I hear they’re setting aside quite a space for dancing in that old clearing."  
  
“‘My lad’, as if!” Siri scoffed, although Bilbo was sure he could see the slightest hint of a blush starting on her cheeks. “I’m far too busy for all that nonsense. Far too much to do. And he’s got his own apprenticeship to focus on too.”  
  
Bilbo had heard almost the same words coming from the mouths of many of his cousins and friends in the past too often to truly believe Siri’s denials and judging by Torda’s amused expression, she was exactly the same opinion.  
  
“Well, there’s two more nights after this. Perhaps you’ll both find a moment at some point to properly celebrate the Prince’s birthday.” she teased, glancing sideways at Siri, still focused intently on her work, before tactfully changing the subject. “Best to have fun whilst we can. Another week or so I heard, then we’ll be back on the road.”  
  
Bilbo felt his heart freeze. Of course he’d never expected that the dwarves would stay for good, but... to leave so soon? And he hadn’t even spoken with any of them yet! Panic started to grip his insides, slowly building.  
  
Siri sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It’ll be nice to be settled again. I do miss—”  
  
“Master Baggins?”  
  
Bilbo started, dropping the turnip he’d been absently considering, and flailing to catch the goods he did want. The grocer was looking at him with an expression somewhere between concern and confusion, and Bilbo got the distinct impression that this wasn’t the first time he’d called to him.  
  
“Sorry! So sorry, completely lost in thought there!” He forced a laugh, passing over the vegetables for the grocer to tally up. He kept glancing over to the next stall, but it was impossible to keep up with the dwarves’ conversation at the same time of replying to the grocer’s chatter.  
  
As soon as he had passed over the money and packed everything away in his basket, he cast another look over to the jewellers, only to find that their talk seemed to have taken a step back. "We'll string together something pretty for you to wear.” Torda was saying, “It's not like the lasses here are buying today, is it?"  
  
Bilbo hesitated for a good long moment, wondering what would happen if, just this once, he pushed himself forward to do what his mother would have done. He could walk on over right now, interrupt their talk of peaceful things, introduce himself, ask more about the ball, ask where Belegost was and why they were heading there, where they were from, why they were here.  
  
Then, nerve deserting him completely at the prospect of the moment being gone, he turned on his heel and hurried home.  
  
\-----  
  
He tried to put it out of his mind. Really, he did.

There was plenty to be getting on with, of course. Things to do. Food to put away. Rooms to tidy. Furniture to clean. The usual Wednesday tasks. As soon as he was back in Bag End, Bilbo set himself to hurrying from one end of the smial to the other and back again, trying to keep busy, trying to push the conversation away and focus on his own world.

Of course, it didn't work. He caught himself hesitating in his chores, lost to daydreams more than once. At one point, he realised with a start that he had been staring out of his kitchen window for a good fifteen minutes, hands still submerged in the cooling water he was meant to be cleaning the dishes in.

_There's no good lingering on it_ , he told himself firmly more than once, _there's no way to go and that's that_. If he really wanted to find out more about dwarves, the best option was still to actually try to encounter some of them and get talking, not wasting time idly sighing over some gathering that he couldn’t attend.  
  
But it didn't stop him from wondering what exactly he would be missing. What did their music sound like? He had seen more than one dwarf carrying a flute or a fiddle, but he hadn't heard them playing yet. Was dancing as vital a part of parties for Dwarves as it was for Hobbits? And, for that matter, how much would this ball be like a gathering at the Party Tree? It had certainly sounded very similar, but Bilbo had already spent so much time wandering wide eyed through the settlements of Elves and Men that he knew better than to presume anything could be identical. At least good food and drink had sounded as important to them as to Hobbits! But what about gifts? Was this prince busy sorting gifts to give out that night, as a Hobbit would, or did they have the same traditions as Men?  
  
Bilbo snorted as he caught his mind wandering yet again. _You won't be missing anything, you idiot. You would never have been invited, so how can you be missing anything if you were never going to have the chance of going anyway?_ But of course, that was no comfort to a Hobbit. Not being invited to a party was potentially an enormous snub, and even if one could reason that there was no invitation because one didn't know the host very well, it did nothing to block the constant stream of gossip and intrigue about just what that party was going to entail. Every last detail was dissected; whenever one of the bigger gatherings was fast approaching, it seemed almost as though every Hobbit in the Shire had no room in their heads for anything but talk of the party.  
  
The day wore on and evening began to draw in. It was when he found himself straightening the coverlet on his bed for the fifth time that day that he realised it was all a lost cause.  
  
 _Fine. Fine!_ He threw his hands up in frustration at himself. _Let’s play pretend for a moment and just get it out of my system._  
  
He ran a hand lightly over the rows of neatly hung jackets and waistcoats, knowing off by heart when each one had been made and for what occasion. The spring wedding of one of his Took cousins. Casual wear for a summer fete. A birthday party  
  
Blues and greens and browns, linen and silk and velvet, crisp white shirts with tiny, intricate stitches, shining brass buttons engraved with straight lines and swirling patterns. Everything had its time and place, waiting here safely in the dark to be brought out again for just the right occasion. And now—  
  
 _Yes, here it is._  
  
Bilbo carefully lifted out a russet jacket, paired on the hanger with a waistcoat in deep forest green. It was a simple match, but a classic style that could be used again and again without ever going out of fashion. An investment that had certainly appealed to his Baggins sense, even if the thought of how much it had cost still made him grimace a little even a few years later. He turned it this way and that, studying it carefully for any signs of wear and tear, any flaws that might have escaped his notice when he last put it away... _well, that must have been at least four months ago. Goodness, and that was the last party I was invited to! How time flies. No wonder my mind is running away with itself._  
  
Truth be told, that realisation made him feel a little sorry for himself. _So,_ he reasoned, _I’m surely allowed to indulge myself just for a moment!_ With a nod, he began to shed his everyday outfit and replace it with the party clothes. Within minutes he was looking at an almost completely different Hobbit in the mirror: smart, elegant, refined, no more traces of daily work or awkwardness. He wondered how many dwarves were right at this very moment doing the same thing.  
  
 _Good enough for any prince, I’m sure,_ he thought with a snort of laughter. He fussed with his hair for a moment and straightened his lapels before pausing to admire his reflection. It lasted for all of ten seconds before he rolled his eyes, adding to himself, _yes, I’d just march straight on over to that clearing and they’d be so impressed by my outfit that they’d barely realise I was about a foot too short and three pounds of beard too light! They’d be fighting amongst themselves for the chance to meet me; the prince himself would be in awe! If only!_  
  
His hands came up to pull the jacket off of his shoulders, only for his gaze to linger a moment longer. _Still... it would have been nice..._  
  
 _Thump— thump— thump._  
  
Bilbo jumped, hands flying away for his jacket and heart pounding so hard all of a sudden that it took him a moment to realise it was just the door. With a deep breath out and a shaky laugh, he started to hurry out of the room and down the hallway, telling himself firmly to stop feeling so much like a fauntling who had been caught with a hand in the biscuit tin. He wasn’t expecting company, but surely it was just what he needed: some practical, everyday diversion to set his good sense back in motion and get rid of all this nonsense. Coming to a stop by the welcome mat, he cleared his throat and pulled open the door.

  
In that instant, all thoughts of the dwarven ball tonight completely left his mind, because standing on his doorstep for the first time in years was Gandalf.  
  
Later on, Bilbo would of course realise that there was no way that this was a coincidence.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Standing there where his reflection should have been was a dwarf.
> 
> No. Standing there was his reflection, and _he_ was a dwarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ewebean has posted up some art for the prompt, so please go check it out! You can see [Bilbo's fantastic transformation into a dwarf](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/105425799916/bilbo-transforming-from-a-hobbit-to-a-dwarf-to) (very apt for this chapter...) and also [Bilbo's final dwarven outfit](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/105425933721/bilbo-decides-not-to-attend-the-last-night-of). :D
> 
> Also, [diemarysues](http://thorin-senpai.tumblr.com/) has posted up their first chapter for the same prompt, which is awesome and should also be on your reading list: [A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2788958/chapters/6259208)
> 
> Now on to Gandalf being a massive troll.

For at least the first five minutes, Bilbo was so utterly delighted to see his old friend that he completely forgot to invite him in. Once that was rectified, it took another ten before he realised he should really put the kettle on.  
  
“I won’t be stopping long.” Gandalf said as he eased himself into the chair designed for ‘Big Folk’ that Belladonna had insisted they have ‘just in case’ and took the offered cup of tea. He had left his hat and staff in their once usual places in the hallway and looked entirely at ease. “I’m just passing through on business, actually.”  
  
Bilbo raised an eyebrow at that, despite his smile. “Oh really? You know, I seem to remember you using that excuse an awful lot. Most times it resulted in dashing off within the next few hours on some madcap journey.” He paused, smile growing sadder as he fidgeted with his own cup. “My mother used to laugh at you every time you came out with it.”  
  
Gandalf’s own smile became sympathetic for a moment before he continued. “Yes, well, this time it happens to be true. It’s not just Hobbits who enjoy my fireworks, you know.”  
  
Bilbo forced aside the memory of his parents and the silence of the smial, and recalled instead all the displays he’d seen the wizard put on over the years. He was certainly right— Men and Elves alike had seemed awed by the spectacular shows Gandalf had brought to them in villages and towns and hidden settlements across Middle Earth, although in Bilbo’s opinion nothing quite beat the fizzing sparks and brilliant explosions on a clear night sky over the Party Tree.  
  
Of course, distracted as he was, it took him a moment to really process Gandalf’s words, and when it struck him his eyes widened almost comically. “Wait! Wait. The dwarves! The ones that are here, now, in the Shire?”  
  
Gandalf was polite enough to hide his laugh behind his cup. “Correct. They’re having a celebration—”  
  
“A ball, right?” Bilbo asked. Realising how overeager he must sound as soon as he said it, he hastily explained, “I overheard two of the dwarven merchants talking about it at the market this morning. Something about a ball for a prince?” Then, enthusiasm taking hold again, “Gandalf, do you _know_ these dwarves?”  
  
“Well, somewhat, I suppose.” The wizard said, tackling the last question first and almost seeming a little hesitant. “They are led by a king, and I happened to know his father many years ago. But really it’s his sister the Princess that I’ve been talking with this time. She’s organising the celebrations and although we’ve been corresponding for some time, we met again just this morning as it happens.”  
  
“A king.” Bilbo murmured to himself, shaking his head and chuckling. First dwarves, and now this! He’d met lords and ladies before it was true, but in all his travels he’d never met a _king_ before. Then something else occurred to him. “But wait. I’m quite sure they said it was the prince’s ball. So who is the prince then— his brother?”  
  
“His nephew.” Gandalf corrected quickly. “The younger of two, both the sons of the Princess. The king is unmarried, and they are his heirs.”  
  
For a moment, Bilbo wondered why the king had not married and had children of his own. Surely there could have been no shortage of suitors for royalty? Then he caught himself, and firmly decided that it was none of his business. After all, didn’t he hate it when he overheard speculation about his own life alone here, despite his family being so well-established? Besides, it could be as simple as the king being happy to devote himself entirely to his people. _Not everyone is like you,_ he told himself, _wasting time sighing and staring at an empty chair across the room._  
  
Gandalf didn’t seem to have noticed Bilbo’s tangent of thought as he continued, “The prince is coming of age, which calls for a big celebration. A ball, or three to be precise, on consecutive nights. And the first will be tonight.”  
  
Bilbo snapped back to himself. “Three balls? My goodness! Folk in the Shire are considered lucky to make it through just the one thirty-third birthday party in one piece.” He still had fond memories— and non-memories— of his own. Gandalf had supplied fireworks then as well, he remembered, and then two days later they’d set off on some madcap adventure down the Brandywine.  
  
“Well, dwarves are a hardy folk, it’s true.”  
  
“So , what is it like? The ball, I mean. The Princess must have shared some details with you, right?”  
  
Gandalf smiled. "Why don't you just take yourself along there and find out?"

"What? Me? No! No no no!" Bilbo huffed an incredulous laugh. "In case you haven't noticed, Gandalf, that would be—” For a long moment he seemed torn between adjectives, until politeness eventually won out despite how _absurd_ the idea was, and he settled for "Quite impossible!"

Gandalf's features shifted into a concerned frown, which Bilbo recognised immediately as the one he wore whenever he was about to propose nonsense of some kind. Past experience had taught him well, evidently. "My dear fellow, whatever do you mean?"

There was another pause as Bilbo stared at him, very obviously wondering whether he ought to dignify such a question with an answer. Politeness, again, won out. His father would have been proud at least.

“I am a Hobbit.”

"Yes, you are."

Bilbo scoffed in frustration, setting down his cup in the saucer with a disgruntled clank. "And they are dwarves!"

"Yes, you did say."

Bilbo paused before throwing his hands up in the air, despairing. "They're _dwarves_. Secretive. Keep themselves to themselves."

"Except, apparently, when mentioning their ball."

"That wasn't an _invitation_ , Gandalf! They're not inviting Hobbits! I just... I just overheard, OK?"

"Well, they _did_ mention it where anyone could hear." Gandalf said, shifting his shoulder in something like a shrug.

"Look, the fact remains that it's quite impossible and that's that. I won't... _spy_ on them like some thief in the night! It's not right. I can't go, I just can't." Bilbo heaved a sigh that came out a little more wistful than he'd intended and promptly tried to disguise it by clearing his throat and grabbing his cup again to blow on his cooling tea, even though it really wasn't necessary. Even if he knew Gandalf was looking at him in that shrewd, appraising way of his, it didn't mean that he had to _acknowledge_ it.

For a while they just sat there, stuck in a silent battle of wills that Bilbo refused to acknowledge. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on. A soft breeze blew in through the open window, ruffling the last few summer flowers in their box by the sill. Somewhere further down the Hill he could hear the shrieks and laughter of some children still at play.

Gandalf, of course, was the first to speak, his words as perfectly calm and considered as they always were in these situations. “And if you could?”

Bilbo glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “If I could go? What, to the dwarves' ball?” Gandalf hummed in agreement and nodded. Bilbo huffed a small laugh and tipped his head back, considering. “Well, I suppose I'd stroll on in, casual as you please. Talk to as many as possible and get to know them.” His fingers tapped an absent rhythm against the china and he chuckled. “Dance up a storm, I suppose, given that that's so important at a ball! And then take the appetite I'd worked up over to the refreshments to sample some of their finest ales!”

Gandalf chuckled too. “A very fine plan it sounds too.”

“Thank you.” Bilbo smiled and took a sip of his tea.

“So why don't you then?”

Of course Gandalf _would_ choose that moment to ask. Once he'd finally finished choking, Bilbo looked at him with an expression somewhere between confusion and exasperation, “I'm sorry, did you just miss that entire conversation just now?”  
  
“My dear fellow, not at all! It just seems so very important to you, that’s all. And besides,” the wizard said, nodding towards his outfit. “You _are_ dressed for it, after all.”  
  
Bilbo spluttered for a moment, completely at a loss to defend himself. What was there he could say anyway? It was completely true. He could already feel his face heating up.  
  
“That was just... clearing out, I was,” he eventually managed. “I was just checking to see if it still fitted and then you suddenly appeared on my doorstep! It’s not right to keep a guest waiting, is it?” He got his cup safely on the side table, stood abruptly and began heading from the room. “Anyway, you haven’t said how long you’ll be passing through. Will you be staying for dinner? Until morning? I’ve enough food in if you needed to—”  
  
“No, no, I must get on soon if I’m to arrive in Bree on schedule.” Gandalf replied. “I just wanted to drop by and see how you have been these past years. Bilbo.” Bilbo jumped at the sudden nearness of the wizard’s voice and turned to find him right behind him. He’d almost forgotten he could do that, and tended to do so on frequent occasion, apparently mostly with the aim of scaring the life out of poor hobbits. “You have changed since we last met.”  
  
Bilbo could scarcely believe what he was hearing. For all that Gandalf’s voice was gentle, what nerve! He crossed his arms and raised his chin.  
  
“Yes, well, five years is quite a while, you know! I’m more than of age, and it was long overdue that I started acting like it.”  
  
“What happened to the Bilbo of before? The one who barely thought twice about running off on an adventure at the drop of a hat? The one who wanted to desperately to see and learn and experience everything that the world had to offer?”  
  
“He had to take responsibility! There’s Bag End, and everything here, and, Gandalf, I can’t just go tearing around Middle Earth any more, not when I’m needed here to take care of things!”  
  
“Not even when an adventure lands right on your doorstep?”  
  
Bilbo heaved a sigh, hands on hips, realising that he was getting nowhere. “So you propose that I just walk straight up to them and they’ll let me in?” he demanded. “Is that it?”  
  
“No, not at all.” Gandalf said calmly. “I’m proposing that you go in as one of them.”  
  
Bilbo stared at him.  
  
“I’m sorry? For a moment there I thought you’d said—“  
  
“I did.”  
  
“Right, well, as amusing as all this is, Gandalf, time is getting on and I’d better make a start with dinner.” He gestured towards the kitchen, trying to signal that whether Gandalf stayed or not, the subject was closed. He seemed to have forgotten over the years just how frustrating wizards could be.  
  
“Bilbo Baggins, I am entirely serious.”  
  
“Oh, so I suppose I’ll just grow a foot or so, shall I? Or are you proposing stilts, hm? Perhaps you’ve brought a pair under your cloak today? And what about the beard? Or my clothes? I hardly look like one of them, Gandalf, I doubt very much that they will be fooled!”  
  
That was when Bilbo realised that Gandalf was holding his staff again. _When did he—? He must have picked it up as he came out into the hallway. Funny, I thought I would have noticed—  
  
_ Shaking his head, he blustered on, “Oh, so I suppose you’re just going to turn me into a dwarf for tonight, is that it?”  
  
“Yes. That is exactly what I am going to do.”  
  
Bilbo lasted all of ten seconds before he laughed, although it came out more nervous than amused even to his own ears. “Me? A dwarf?”  
  
“Yes. It will be good for you.” Gandalf said almost sternly, before adding not quite to himself, “And most amusing for me.”  
  
There were many things that Bilbo could have said at that moment. Perhaps he could have laughed it all off. Or perhaps he could have explained to Gandalf that he was perfectly happy here at Bag End with his life now, alone, yes, but with his books and absolutely no wistful daydreams about a not so silent home. But as it was, he was so riled up in that moment that he came out with very possibly the last thing he should have said.  
  
“Well, go on then. Go ahead. Let’s see you do it.”  
  
“Oh, you are sure now?”  
  
“Yes, absolutely! By all means, if you think you can do it, just do it! Make me a dwarf!”  
  
As soon as the words had left his mouth, he knew he shouldn’t have said them. He faltered, wondering for a moment whether he could take them back, but Gandalf was already drawing himself up to his full height and looking at him appraisingly from under those bushy eyebrows.  
  
“Very well.” he said, and raised his staff.  
  
Bilbo screwed his eyes shut, fists clenching automatically, shoulders hunching, a terrible fearful apprehension rushing over him.  
  
For the longest moment all he was aware of was Gandalf looming over him: big, powerful, and scrutinising every inch of him. There was a rush of air, he flinched—  
  
And then Gandalf's staff tapped once on the floor.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
Slowly, Bilbo's fists gradually uncurled, his nails releasing his palms, and he cracked his eyes open. There stood Gandalf, looking down at him with the same serious expression as before, although Bilbo was sure there was a twinkle of amusement in those eyes. Bilbo hesitated, then gave into his terrible curiosity and looked down.  
  
Two hands, ten fingers worn with calluses from hours spent in the garden or at his writing desk. The same well-proportioned limbs, the smart party outfit, and his same respectable feet, all toes and hair present and correct.  
  
Everything was present and correct, just as it was supposed to be. He was still a hobbit.  
  
A frown grew over his face almost without him realising it. _Is he... was this... he was just joking!_ Bilbo thought, the voice in his head growing ever more frantic. _I'll bet he was laughing at me this whole time! Look at him, standing there, acting so stern! I've got a good mind to give him what for!_  
  
Edging towards fury, Bilbo looked up at the wizard, and opened his mouth to speak.  
  
No words came out. At that moment, there was a dreadful lurch in his stomach. He clutched at it automatically, doubling over, feeling his breath taken away by a strange prickling sensation running over every inch of his skin.  
  
"It takes a little while." he heard Gandalf say, sounding as though he was suddenly very far away. "And of course its effects aren't permanent. But it's a very thorough spell, as you'll see."  
  
Bilbo wanted to respond to that with something sharp and sarcastic about how 'thorough' didn't quite cover it, but he was too absorbed already in the effects of the spell to be able to manage much more than a half-pained gasp. His bones were scraping— scraping!— against one another, and the sudden movement of his joints knocked him off balance. Grabbing the kitchen doorway for support, he found himself staring at his hand, wide eyed and wordless at the way it was bulging and growing before his very eyes.   
  
Suddenly, there were lights before his eyes: brief flashes of gold and green, sparks of red, purple, blue. Everything seemed shrouded in smoke, and when he tried to look for Gandalf beyond it, the room seemed to jolt sickeningly under him and he had to close his eyes.  
  
When the pain and dizziness started to recede into dull aches, he found himself on his hands and knees, heaving for breath. For a moment everything seemed like a horrible dream, and then the hem of Gandalf’s robe came into view. Half frantic, he scrambled to his feet and backwards, suddenly feeling very heavy— _why is everything so small all of a sudden?_ — and collided with the hallway mirror, almost sending it tumbling to the floor. His reflexes kicked in and he caught it before it could do much more than wobble dangerously, but then he caught sight of the glass and stopped dead.  
  
Standing there where his reflection should have been was a dwarf.  
  
No. Standing there was his reflection, and _he_ was a dwarf.   
  
Realisation began to settle in over the shock. He turned his hands this way and that, unable to believe how different they felt. He leaned closer to study his face, relieved for a moment to see his same Baggins nose and eyes there in front of him even if they did seem impossibly enlarged, and then suddenly falling back into shock at the sight of the beard he already felt taking up his lower face. Even his clothes had been transformed, the deep red jacket becoming a tunic in the dwarven fashion, his simple belt now adorned with a magnificent brass clasp in the shape of an acorn. And long trousers— he’d never imagined to wear those in his life!  
  
“You see?” Gandalf was saying somewhere behind him. “A very thorough spell indeed. And most convincing, if I do say so myself.”  
  
There were no words, absolutely no words, to describe this. Bilbo found himself stuttering instead, “When... how long...”  
  
“Oh, only until midnight, and then it’ll wear off.” Gandalf said, seeming very casual for one who had just witnessed such a transformation. “Which unfortunately means you’ll be needing to leave the ball before then, unless you want to give them all quite a scare, but it’s the best I can do.”  
  
Bilbo didn’t reply. He was too busy hesitantly raising his hands to feel his new face, the beard, the braids now woven either side of his head.  
  
“Here, you’ll be needing these too.”  
  
Bilbo jerked out of his almost trance and looked up to find a pair of sturdy leather boots right in front of his face. _So, this is it then._  
  
Slowly, grudgingly, he reached up and took them.  
  
“Just happened to have them with you, did you?” he muttered.   
  
Gandalf only smiled at him.


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Too bad." she had replied just as flatly. "I've already started the preparations and begun spreading the word."
> 
> Of course, she had chosen the exact moment he had taken a gulp of ale to announce this. He realised deep down that should have really known her well enough to expect that. Balin's poor report was never going to look the same again, no matter how much he blotted at it with his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I saw Battle of the Five Armies this weekend.
> 
> On a happier note, here's another chapter.

The ball had not been Thorin's idea, of course. It was— as with a lot of things really— entirely down to Dís.  
  
"No." had been his flat response when she had first brought the subject up. He hadn't even bothered to look up from Balin's latest report, delivered late last night and needing to be read before this morning's meeting. He didn't need to see her to know for sure that she was standing there with her hands on her hips and an eyebrow raised.  
  
"Too bad." she had replied just as flatly. "I've already started the preparations and begun spreading the word."  
  
Of course, she had chosen the exact moment he had taken a gulp of ale to announce this. He realised deep down that should have really known her well enough to expect that. Balin's poor report was never going to look the same again, no matter how much he blotted at it with his sleeve.  
  
"What?" he eventually forced out, trying valiantly not to cough or splutter too much.   
  
"My youngest son is coming of age. We can't let that pass by without a celebration, can we?" she replied matter-of-factly. "We had a celebration for Fíli when he came of age too. Don't pretend you don't remember that."  
  
Thorin snorted. "Of course I remember it. I doubt anyone would forget how drunk the pair of them got. Least of all Dwalin. As I recall they somehow thought it was a good idea to see which of them had the more accurate aim by throwing knives at an apple balanced on Dwalin’s head. By the end of the evening he was striding through the halls with one of them perched on each shoulder, singing tavern songs.”  
  
Dís waved aside his comment. "He didn't mind. He was just as drunk as they were."  
  
Thorin smiled briefly at the memory, before his face grew serious again. "Dís, those were different times. You know that as well as I do."  
  
He couldn't bring himself to say anything else. He didn't have to, really. She had been alongside him the whole way, had seen the same shreds of concern starting to lurk in the backs of the miners' eyes, had read the same reports as they gradually grew grimmer and grimmer, had sat up all night with him at her kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses between them as they talked through the various options by flickering lamplight.   
  
Ered Luin had never held the same glory as Erebor, but it had been a solid, stable base for their people to build a secure life for many years to come, or so they had thought. Nobody had expected the resources in those mountains to dwindle quite so quickly. Five years ago things had been growing increasingly difficult, but at least they had had a home. Now here they were on the road again. Dís had been the one to talk him down from setting out to reclaim Erebor, pointing out that he would be leaving his people behind to starve with no reassurance of a home at the end of his quest.  
  
Belegost it was then. Ruined, ancient, almost forgotten, but not lost under the foul smoke of a dragon.   
  
“Thorin,” Dís said, “Everyone has been working so hard, from the youngest to the oldest. They are tired, and sorrowful, and worked to the bone. They could do with a break, and this would be the perfect opportunity.”  
  
Of course. Trust Dís to be the one to notice such a thing. It wasn't that Thorin didn't see his peoples' drawn faces, or the weariness lurking behind their eyes as another summer sped towards another winter, this time on the road. It was just that he was better with the most practical solutions: organising hunting parties, securing defenses, ordering the construction of shelters. He was their king. It was down to him to ensure they were fed and safe. The rest Dís took upon herself, knowing that it did not come so easily to him.  
  
And of course Kíli was always going to need a celebration this year. Coming of age was an extremely important business for any dwarf, but especially for one of Durin's line. The royal family had marked this occasion for many generations with a week-long celebration for every dwarf in the kingdom to attend: seven whole nights of feasting and festivities and dancing, to be enjoyed by every dwarf from the highest noble to the lowest tinker.   
  
But that had been then. Thorin's own coming of age had been the last time such a thing had happened. By the time Dís had come of age, Smaug had destroyed everything they had ever known. Everyone had been working hard to help establish a new life of their people in Ered Luin and times had been difficult. It had been Dís herself who had suggested cutting the celebrations down to just three nights instead: enough time for every dwarf in the settlement to have fun and forget their troubles for a while, but short enough that nobody would be too out of pocket. She had insisted on explaining it herself in front of everyone they could gather, and ever since the people had loved her. (In fact, it was that speech that Thorin was certain had alerted Dís's One to her presence, because he had turned up awfully quickly afterwards.)  
  
It still pained Thorin to think that he had been unable to provide the fitting celebration for his sister that she deserved as Princess of Erebor, even if Dís firmly reminded him that they were not in Erebor anymore. The pain was really only second to that that he felt whenever he thought about the celebration he had never been able to provide for Frerin.  
  
As always, he felt the usual painful lump rise in his throat as Frerin came to mind, so different from him. He had been just like Kíli, all infectious laughter and merriment. Erebor had loved and respected Thorin for his bravery, his ability to lead, but Frerin they had loved for his vitality. Dís, too, held that same spark of closeness to their people. She had been still so young when their home had been taken by the dragon. He wondered if she would have grown more like Frerin if life had continued the way it was meant to, instead of developing a hard, stern edge to her character that reminded him too much of himself.  
  
So, Thorin had always expected them to be hosting another three nights of celebration when Kíli came of age, just as they had done for Fíli, and for Dís, and for every royal throughout the years. He just hadn't quite expected their people to be on the move again when it came around to the time.  
  
He cleared his throat, straightened the report, and muttered, "Well, if it's already done, I don't suppose there's much I could say to undo it. Very well."  
  
He wasn't looking at her, but he just knew there was a triumphant smirk there.  
  
\-----  
  
He had made it very clear from the beginning that he had no desire to be involved in the organising, which Dís had told him was more than obvious. She was true to her word and undertook all of the arrangements herself, even with such a tight deadline. In the days following their conversation, Thorin barely saw her, so busy as she was recruiting cooks and musicians and bargaining in the town for food and ale. The simplest thing seemed to be organising where the balls were to be held. Apparently these Hobbits, stuffy and proper though they were, had a thing for parties themselves and so were only too happy to point out a suitable clearing near the dwarven camp (though Thorin suspected his sister had used her most fearsome expression during bargaining to speed things up).  
  
Much to his relief there was very little for him to do except listen and nod in agreement, and then get back to his work with Balin and the other advisers, planning their route ahead.  
  
Still, it wasn’t until the first night itself that his misgivings started to fade. Standing in the midst of all the preparation, listening to the excited chatter of the organisers, seeing the excited faces of his nephews (no matter how much Fíli, nowadays ever more conscious of his role as heir, attempted to look calm and composed), brought back fond memories of happier times in Ered Luin and even Erebor. He could feel himself relaxing almost straight away. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.  
  
As the time grew nearer, he steeled himself and moved to take his place at the top of the clearing, only for his sister to stop him with a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“You’ve done so much for us all, Thorin.” she said. “Nobody will begrudge you a night or two off. You’ll do the official announcement to open and leave the individual greetings to the lads, alright?”  
  
He shook his head. “They will expect to see their king greeting them.”  
  
“Maybe, but they will _like_ seeing their king as one of them, laughing and drinking and celebrating their prince’s birthday.” Her tone was firm, but she smiled at him all the same. “Trust me on this one. You’ve taught them both so much, but they need the chance to put it into practice.”  
  
Well, she did have a point there. Fíli was everything he could have hoped for in an heir, and Kíli had always learnt best from his brother. In any case, there was never any point arguing with her when she was like this. “Very well. But you are to come get me immediately if there is any trouble, understand?”  
  
She clapped him on the shoulder. “Understood, but it will all be _fine_ , brother. Though from your end, I fully expect to hear about every dwarf and dwarrowdam you get to know tonight, agreed?”  
  
Thorin rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but feel more than a little relieved at the prospect of not having to spend most of his time formally meeting and greeting his subjects. Perhaps Dís was right, even if he would never admit it to her. Perhaps it really would help to be seen amongst his people, even if he wasn’t inclined to idle chatter like Kíli, or effortlessly charming like Fíli, or just naturally gifted in dealing with others like Dís.  
  
He considered Dís’s words for a moment. Drinking? Now there was something he could do. He’d seen them rolling in the barrels earlier and he’d heard good things about this Shire ale from Dwalin, who would always be up for a tankard or five with him. At least now he was free to try it, even at the expense of his nephews’ freedom this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for everyone's feedback, kudos, bookmarks, all the rest. ^-^ It's great to know people have enjoyed it so far!
> 
> (Even though I've now seen BotFA, best to try to keep spoilers out of the comments please, as there's still a lot of people who've not seen it. :))


	5. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Come along, there's work to be done._ he told himself firmly, in the same way that he would when trying to tear himself away from a fascinating book to tackle some daunting task or other, whether tidying his writing desk or bringing himself to be polite to his cousin Otho’s dreadful new wife. _It's now or never, Baggins. You've always said how much you'd like to meet the dwarves and learn more about them, you can't back down now! At the very least head for some of that food!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had a great Christmas break!
> 
> Sorry for the delay, which has been longer than I intended. I managed to get very sick just after Christmas, and have been spending the last few days in bed recovering, which is no fun at all. D: But, finally, here's another update!

The first sign of the party was the noise, which reached Bilbo when he was still several minutes away down the track. It started as a murmur and gradually grew until he could pick out voices laughing and chattering, the rhythm of drums, the melodies of flutes and fiddles. Apparently the party was already in full swing, which was probably just as well if he wanted to sneak in unnoticed.

Another bonus was that the track was empty now he was further towards the woods. It seemed that any dwarves who might have been using it to return from their day's work had already done so, and any hobbits who might have needed it were staying close to the town tonight— perhaps, Bilbo suspected, because they had heard about the likely raucous ball, or maybe just because of the presence of the dwarves themselves. There had been one or two near misses as he had scurried out of Bag End, and the prospect of not having to duck into the shade of any more trees or dodge behind any more hedges was an attractive one to say the least.

That wasn't to say he wasn't nervous, of course. He was absolutely petrified, and it only grew worse with each step that he took. His heart was pounding like a forge hammer against his ribs, and even though a tiny, hysterical voice kept giggling at the back of his mind about how appropriate that was, it only made it all worse.

In a way, it was almost a good thing that he was having to concentrate so hard on walking in those confounded boots, otherwise he was sure he might have just given into panic by now. Of course, it didn't quite seem like that when he stumbled over his own clumsy feet yet again.

As before, he managed to catch himself just before he fell, stumbling a few steps to a halt and just standing for a moment with his arms outstretched, catching his breath. He knew it wasn't all the boots' fault. His entire body felt strange and alien, and he wasn't sure that that would change at all during the course of the evening. He had traced this very path so many times throughout his life, but suddenly everything seemed so much smaller. His arms and legs felt heavier, and full of strange, strong muscles that he was half sure hadn't been there before. And the beard of course! Gandalf had been quick to give him a stern telling off for the way he had kept swatting at it as though it was some irritating fly that kept tickling at his face.

"They'll spot you a mile off." he had said warningly. "They may not guess you're not really a dwarf, not inside at least, but they'll certainly notice you're different."

 _Easy for Gandalf to say,_ Bilbo thought irritably, _especially with that great long beard of his! How would he felt if it suddenly disappeared? Much the same as I do right now, I'll wager! At least I've still got the hair on my feet, but that could be true of dwarves anyway, rather than something staying the same. Who knew they were so..._ hairy _?_ He heaved a sigh, putting his hands on his hips. _Still, it looks like I'm stuck with everything until midnight, hair and all._ He cast an offended look down at his feet, holding out first one and then the other, before snorting softly to himself. _A Baggins in boots, indeed! At any rate, I'd better carry on if I'm to make the best of all this..._

He headed on down the path. In fact, so hard was he trying to concentrate totally on the tricky business of getting one foot safely in front of the other despite the gathering dusk that he almost didn't realise how close he was getting until the clearing suddenly came into view and a sudden rush of colour and noise assaulted him. He stopped and stared.

The clearing itself was fairly spacious, but was so crowded with dwarves that Bilbo would have been hard pressed to believe it if he hadn't already known the place. Banners and streamers had been strung between the trees, flapping and fluttering in the summer evening breeze and giving the whole area a festive feel. The musicians he had heard from afar were set up on a small platform to one side, and they seemed to be taking turns with different teams so that there was little to no pause in the music. Whirling, stamping groups of dwarves danced in front of them, clapping and singing along, and Bilbo wondered briefly whether he might catch sight of blonde-haired Siri from the morning's market amongst the dancers, maybe with the young suitor that Torda had teased her about. Before he could decide whether to investigate further, a few young lads cut past him, wearing aprons and laden high with various dishes. They were too quick for Bilbo to catch sight of what they were bearing, but he could briefly catch the scent of roast meat, fresh pastry, cake. Sniffing appreciatively, he watched them weave their way expertly through the thronging crowds towards another end of the clearing, where— if he strained his neck just enough to see over the heads of the guests— he could just about see some ale barrels stacked high.

As soon as they were lost from sight— along with the fantastic scent of food— it struck Bilbo that he was standing and gaping in a most undignified way, and that anyone who caught sight of him would probably suspect that he had lost his mind. Shaking himself, he tried to snap out of his daze.

 _Come along, there's work to be done._ he told himself firmly, in the same way that he would when trying to tear himself away from a fascinating book to tackle some daunting task or other, whether tidying his writing desk or bringing himself to be polite to his cousin Otho’s dreadful new wife. _It's now or never, Baggins. You've always said how much you'd like to meet the dwarves and learn more about them, you can't back down now! At the very least head for some of that food!_

With a deep breath or two, he swallowed hard, cleared his throat, balled his fists and plunged head first into the crowds.  
  
The excellent thing about the hustle and bustle of the ball, and about his wonder of his surroundings, was that within minutes he had entirely forgotten his fear. Instead, it was replaced by a concern much more standard and pressing: how to get through so many people without being crushed.  
  
There were dwarves in every direction. Who knew they could move so _fast_ for a people so sturdily built for a start, and then laden down with all those heavy layers of fabric and fur, not to mention jewellery and weaponry? ( _And the boots_ , his mind added sourly as he tried to keep lifting the weighty leather encasing his own feet without tripping or stamping on anyone else’s toes.)  
  
Everything was too busy, too crowded. It all passed in a rush of vague impressions: the stomp of running feet as a trail of dwarves rushed in front of him towards the dance floor, the glint of firelight off of metal beads and buckles, snatches of conversation in words he couldn’t understand, bodies pushing and jostling, constant movement. And, under it all, the ever present sense of being too big and yet too small; of being too clumsy, too different to pass; of the high likelihood that all eyes could turn to him at any moment and see him for the hobbit he truly was inside, beard or no.  
  
By the time he reached the food, he was breathing heavily and trembling all over. Forcing his hands to uncurl at last— wincing slightly at the sting of fingernails leaving his palms— he pushed his way through the last few dwarves and took in the sight in front of him.  
  
To his dismay, it brought no sense of relief, only more confusion. Food was something that should have come naturally to him. But perhaps he had left more of his hobbit nature behind at Bag End than he had suspected after all, because the sight of so many trestle tables groaning under the weight of so many dishes just left him bewildered.  
  
He looked around worriedly to find dwarves helping themselves to various plates and dishes, tossing food to each other, jostling each other out of the way. Should he do the same? Should he watch longer?  
  
“Just start your way at one end and work along. Always works for me!”  
  
Standing beside him all of a sudden was a dwarf with a warm smile under his drooping moustache and dark braids curling up from under a large hat. He was also entirely draped in children: one in his arms, another perched on his shoulders, a third clinging onto his trouser leg, and one each latched on to each ankle, giggling wildly as he dragged them along with each step. Bilbo wondered for a moment how on earth he managed to herd so many youngsters through the chaos and crowds and apparently stay so calm.  
  
“Don’t think we’ve met, have we?” the dwarf said with a friendly nod. “Bofur, at yer service.”  
  
It was then that Bilbo realised that he hadn’t even thought of how to introduce himself. The simplest detail completely missed! If only he’d had time to catch his breath before Gandalf bundled him out into the night! What Dwarvish names were there? He’d only heard of one or two, and there was no way he could use his really name, as hobbitish as it was, and Bofur was looking at him expectantly—  
  
“Durin,” he heard himself saying, mirroring Bofur’s nod. “Er, Durin, at yours...”  
  
Something of a pariah he may have been— _Mad Baggins, indeed!_ — but Bilbo had grown up in one of the most respectable and well-connected families in the Shire. He could spot a social faux pas a mile off. He knew then, without a doubt, that _Durin_ was certainly _not_ the name he should have given! The respondent’s hesitation was always a strong sign; uncertainty; a confused furrowing of the brows; things like that. Unfortunately for him, Bofur was sporting all of these signs and more.

“Sorry, did you say Durin?” he asked politely.  
  
Bilbo, forcing his panic down, decided it was time to resort to one of the best social strategies he knew: talk himself out of trouble.  
  
“Er, well, it’s... it’s really... more of a nickname.” he stumbled out, voice trailing off as Bofur’s face refused to relax.

 _Blast it all!_ Trust that to turn out no better. Bloody Gandalf was probably sitting with his feet up at Bag End right at this very moment, working his way through Bilbo’s considerable stash of Old Toby and laughing at him all the while. If only he had prepared him for this! Given him some time to think, some time to prepare, some time to take on board anything about the dwarves that wouldn’t have led to something so incredibly awkward!  
  
But he hadn’t of course. Which left Bilbo with only one option, albeit a tried and tested one: attempting to change the subject.    
  
“Er, and who are all of these fine young lads and lasses?” Bilbo hoped with everything he had that his smile didn’t appear as forced as it felt, and that his pounding heart wasn’t as noticeable to the others as it was to him. But Bofur seemed perfectly happy to talk about the children with him; Bilbo only wished he could feel more relieved.  
  
“These’re all my nieces and nephews— well, all of them for now!” Bofur winked, and Bilbo was glad all of a sudden for the beard as he felt his face heat up. It wasn’t that Hobbits were shy about having children— ten or more was quite normal in a lot of Shire families— but folk weren’t so... well, open in their insinuations! Luckily, Bofur hadn’t seemed to notice that anything was amiss. “My brother’s wife, that’s Bera, she’s a cook too. Both been roped in for tonight. Well, you wouldn’t turn it down, would you? Being offered the chance to cook at a prince’s coming of age ball, you’d be a fool not to leap at the chance, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Bilbo nodded, hoping that his quick answer of “oh yes, of course” would be enough to cover up the fact he wouldn’t have been able to pick the princes out of a line of dwarves unless they were the only ones wearing crowns. He wondered briefly how old dwarves had to be to come of age— far older than Hobbits, no doubt, given how much longer they lived. He wondered if there was a way he could turn the conversation in that direction without seeming incredibly odd or immensely suspicious, but his mind seemed to be completely blank, not wanting to risk another Durin debacle.  
  
"You look familiar." Bilbo ventured instead, only to hesitate when Bofur frowned a little in confusion. "I- I- er, that is, I mean... I'm sure I've seen you in the marketplace or something?"  
  
"Oh! Yes, I'm down there quite a lot." Bofur's face relaxed again into an easy smile. "I'm a toymaker, y'see. My cousin and me, we're down there quite a lot. Been quite popular with all the little Hobbit children, although of course all these little terrors—“ He paused to tickle the little girl in his arms, who had been trying to steal his hat whilst her uncle was distracted, causing her to squeal and giggle. “Want to keep all the toys for themselves.”  
  
“Uncle Bofur’s toys are the best!” chimed in the sturdy ginger lad clinging to Bofur’s trouser leg.  
  
“I’ve trained them well, as you can see.” Bofur said, grinning broadly as he patted the youngster on the head. “You’ve probably come past our stall back in the Blue Mountains at least once or twice, I’ll bet?”  
  
He was looking so expectant that Bilbo knew he couldn’t just tell him no, so he mumbled something that sounded vaguely like agreement before moving on to the first thing that came to mind. “Is your cousin here tonight as well?”  
  
“Bifur? Oh aye, he’ll be over by the musicians no doubt. That’s where we’re headed off to now as it happens, make sure he’s not got himself into any trouble.” He nodded at Bilbo. “Been good chatting with you! Be sure to say hello if you catch us again, alright?”  
  
“Oh— oh yes, of course!” Bilbo wanted to say something, anything to make him stay, but not a single thing came to mind.  
  
Suddenly Bofur turned back, calling over, “Oh! Queue’s a bit shorter now, if you’re still needing to go over.”  
  
Bilbo blinked. “Sorry, what?”  
  
“The queue.” At Bilbo’s continued blank look he gestured as best he could whilst draped with so many children to a particularly crowded spot not too far away. “You know, the queue? To go greet the princes!”  
  
“Oh. Oh! Of course, yes!” Bilbo said hurriedly, realising that he’d apparently just uncovered a dwarven custom by blundering straight into it. Bofur might not have taken offense at his forgetfulness, but there was no guarantee that anyone else would be so lenient. And with a cheery almost wave, the toymaker was disappearing into the crowds with possible Bilbo’s only chance at answers.  
  
\-----  
  
In a way, being alone was easier he supposed. He didn’t need to worry about being too obvious with not understanding, or about saying the wrong thing.  
  
In practice, of course, it was an entirely different matter. There was just so much hustle and bustle that simply standing by to observe was not an option. No sooner did he find a quiet spot to stand than it seemed to be overrun with dwarves! He tried smiling and nodding at one or two of them, and received equal politeness in return, but he didn’t dare push it further— what if he gave himself away for real this time? Eavesdropping was also out of the question. He had nearly always heard the dwarves speaking Westron around the Shire, and on the few occasions they hadn’t they had fallen silent very quickly once they realised an outsider was nearby. Here amongst their own kind, their own secret language flowed freely. Beard or not, there was just no way he would be able to keep up with his pretence if anyone expected him to speak anything but Westron with him.  
  
He considered going to observe the dancers, but there was too much chance he would be pulled up to join in something he didn’t know, and in any case he knew the boots would hardly help him be graceful about his ignorance. He thought about trying some of the delicious looking dishes on the tables, but the nervous roiling of his stomach meant he had very little appetite. He didn’t dare go see the princes, custom or not. They would surely spot him a mile off!  
  
His internal battle raged on until, all of a sudden, he just decided _no._  
  
Almost before he realised it, he was forcing his way through the crowds towards the woods. Dwarves loomed on all sides; his shoulders hunched in on themselves, every muscle tensing.  
  
 _I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,_ Bilbo’s mind was running through those words again and again. _Why did I go along with this? Maybe if I’d not challenged Gandalf like that... or if I’d just refused to leave home, or... or if I’d just spoken to him about something else and not been so stupid—_  
  
Lost as he was in thought, it was perhaps to be expected that his feet finally betrayed him. The crowds near the ale were some of the thickest and most bustling, and he was so absorbed in his thoughts and trying to dodge everyone else that one set of toes caught on the heel of his other foot and sent him flying—  
  
Only to collide with something firm. Firm and moving, he realised with a jolt of horror, and with hands that had grabbed his elbows as suddenly as he’d collided with them. He pushed himself back as quickly as possible, trying to steady himself, and was absolutely mortified to find what he’d crashed into was a broad chest, clad in thick fur and rich blue.  
  
“Sorry! Sorry, I am so sorry—” he blundered, not daring to look up at the face of the dwarf he had crashed into, instead opting for the far safer choice of ducking past them and breaking into a full run for the woodland track, no longer caring if he was shoving others out of the way or not. He thought he heard a raised voice behind him, but whatever it said was lost in the babble of the crowd and in his own mind repeating, _stupid, stupid, stupid,_ in an endless whirl.  
  
He was so close— just a few more steps to safety— just a little further, and—  
  
A strong hand closed around his wrist the very instant a deep voice behind him commanded, “Wait!”


	6. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I apologise again if I caused you some grave insult.” he said stiffly, raising his chin and clenching his fists tightly. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’m needed elsewhere, so I’ll be on my way now.”
> 
> The dwarf was clearly taken aback, but despite his slight recoil he didn’t release Bilbo’s wrist. Then, all of a sudden, he laughed. It was a short, sharp bark of a laugh, sounding almost stunned, but it was a laugh nonetheless.
> 
> “The only insult you would be offering is by leaving so soon— it’s barely past nine o’clock!” He frowned then, but it didn’t seem to have any real anger behind it; instead, he seemed genuinely confused. “Surely you cannot really be going?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little later than expected- illness and real life got in the way a bit! But thank you again for the hits, comments and kudos, I'm really glad people are enjoying it so far. :)
> 
> Don't forget to also check out the second story for this prompt, [A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2788958/chapters/6259208) by [diemarysues](http://diemarysues.tumblr.com/). It's up to chapter three already!
> 
> Also make sure to check out [ewebean's](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/) artwork for the prompt: [Bilbo's transformation](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/105425799916/bilbo-transforming-from-a-hobbit-to-a-dwarf-to) and [Bilbo the dwarf](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/105425933721/bilbo-decides-not-to-attend-the-last-night-of).

Bilbo’s first instinct was to freeze entirely. His brain, however, carried on at a mile a minute: _run, you idiot, get your wrist free and_ run _! You need to get away! They’ve found you out, they’ll know, they’ll— they’ll— well, who even knows! But it won’t be good! Oh blast and botheration, why didn’t I check with Gandalf about dwarven crime systems before I let him push me out of my own front door! Why didn’t I learn to fight! What can I—_  
  
But even as he ran desperately through a million possible options to fight back, the hand was loosening and releasing his wrist. It took him a moment to realise he was free. He whirled around, blinking in surprise, only to see—  
  
 _Oh._  
  
The dwarf standing before him was far more regal than Bofur had been; than any of the dwarves had been, honestly. He was much taller than Bilbo even as he currently stood, so Bilbo could only imagine how he would tower over him in his own true body. His beard was closely cropped ( _unusual_ , Bilbo thought, _I wonder why?_ ) and as dark as the long hair which fell loose about his stern face.  
  
He was also, Bilbo noticed, wearing a rich blue tunic, and a surcoat with a magnificent fur collar.  
  
 _Oh, for goodness—!_ Bilbo thought, mouth dry and face burning under the beard. _Just my luck!_  
  
But underneath all that, he could feel the annoyance starting up; the familiar Tookish temper that still flared up every now and then. He had apologised, hadn’t he? Certainly he had been in a rush, but that was no excuse for this stranger to— to _manhandle_ him like that!  
  
“I apologise again if I caused you some grave insult.” he said stiffly, raising his chin and clenching his fists tightly. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’m needed elsewhere, so I’ll be on my way now.”  
  
The dwarf was clearly taken aback, but despite his slight recoil he didn’t release Bilbo’s wrist. Then, all of a sudden, he laughed. It was a short, sharp bark of a laugh, sounding almost stunned, but it was a laugh nonetheless.  
  
“The only insult you would be offering is by leaving so soon— it’s barely past nine o’clock!”  He frowned then, but it didn’t seem to have any real anger behind it; instead, he seemed genuinely confused. “Surely you cannot really be going?”  
  
“They’ll be expecting me.” he found himself saying, unsure as to who he really meant. The other hobbits, he supposed, all the relatives and neighbours and acquaintances he had throughout the Shire, who would be expecting to see him out and about as usual tomorrow, providing a source of lingering scandal to add intrigue to their day. But it was such a bland, trite excuse that it couldn’t fail to create more questions.  
  
“Who? Your kin?” Bilbo nodded, hoping that the dwarf would drop the subject, but if anything he seemed more confused. “Are they not here also?”  
  
As quickly as he’d nodded, suddenly Bilbo was shaking his head. “No, n-no, they’re at home, and I really must be—” he said, but it seemed to be falling on deaf ears.  
  
“You did not come with us from Ered Luin, did you?” the dwarf was saying, his eyes (blue, Bilbo noticed, as blue as a cold winter’s sky) searching every inch of Bilbo’s face. “No,” he murmured, mostly to himself it seemed. “No, I would have remembered you if I had laid eyes on you before.” Then, seeming to come to his senses again, he said louder, “Where did you appear from?”  
  
"Oh, I was just... er... dropping by, I suppose you could say." Bilbo gave a laugh, and hoped it didn't sound as nervous to the dwarf as it did to him.  
  
"How long have you spent here?"  
  
Bilbo gestured vaguely. "I'm... not really sure, to be perfectly honest. Long enough, really. Really, I must—“  
  
"I'll wager you've not even had time for an ale yet, have you?"  
  
Bilbo knew he should say yes, of course he had. He knew he should say that he'd had time enough to sample everything the ball had to offer, thank you very much, and that it had been lovely, but now he really must be leaving.  
  
But it was hard. He found himself shaking his head, even as his inner voice of Baggins sense demanded quite bluntly to know what in the world he was thinking. Perhaps it was the dryness of his throat and mouth, that was all. Yes, that must be it. It was a fair way back to Bag End, and he'd already been standing around without any refreshments for quite some time; to be offered the chance to go back into the ball and relax with a cool ale in the company of a dwarf who seemed fairly open to talking with him...  
  
 _Well, one drink can't hurt, can it?_ the Tookish side of him insisted.  
  
If the dwarf had noticed anything of his inner argument, he gave no indication of it, instead just offering him a smile that seemed somewhat tinged with triumph. "As I thought. Come then, have a drink with me."  
  
It was then, as the dwarf began pulling him back towards the party, that Bilbo realised that he still had hold of his wrist; and, more to the point, that Bilbo had entirely forgotten about this at some point during their short exchange. But whatever this might mean, Bilbo did not have chance to consider it for now. Emerging from the first few rows of trees back into the swarming crowds, the noise and energy of the gathering hit him like a slap in the face. Bilbo must have jolted slightly, because the dwarf glanced back at him over his shoulder. He didn't speak, instead making some kind of gesture that Bilbo had never seen before, although he nodded as though he understood. Its probable meaning became clearer, however, when he found himself being led towards one of the furthest tables in the clearing, tucked half behind the barrels themselves and close to the edge of the clearing.  
  
It was then that the dwarf finally let go of his wrist, and instead nudged him forward. "Sit; I'll be back shortly."  
  
Bilbo did as his was told, although he felt panic rise again as the dwarf disappeared back into the crowds and out of sight. _How long will he be?_ He found himself fidgeting, fingers drumming the table nervously. _What if someone else tries to talk to me? What if they realise? What if_ he _realises? What if he doesn't come back?_  
  
But his worries were cut short but the sudden reappearance of the dwarf, carrying two large tankards which he set down before sitting down on the bench opposite Bilbo.  
  
"Thank you." Bilbo said, feeling himself relaxing ever so slightly; enough to joke a little. "Perhaps I ought to ask you to fetch me ale again sometime. You must have a knack for getting through crowds."  
  
The dwarf took a long drink from his tankard and smirked as he set it down again. "It's easy enough," he agreed. "When you're the king."  
  
Bilbo considered himself lucky afterwards that he had only just taken hold of his own tankard, because he was certain that if he'd actually been lifting it at that moment, he would have dropped it.  
  
“S-sorry?” If possible, his mouth felt even dryer now. Of all the dwarves who could have found him, of all the dwarves who might possibly find him out, this was definitely, absolutely, without a doubt the very worst dwarf to do it. _What’s the sentence for impersonating a dwarf? Has it ever even come up before? Maybe it’s a first— maybe they’ll have to have a trial..._  
  
“What is it?” The smirk had fallen from the dwarf’s face. Bilbo could see his face closing in on itself— the laughter dying, the openness fading, _no, no, no_ — and rushed to say something, anything, to make it all better.  
  
“You’re— ah— hmm—” Bilbo cleared his throat nervously. “You’re the _king_?” As if to prove to him that, yes, actually, he could feel even more mortified, his voice insisted on cracking ever so slightly on the last word.  
  
Of course, that seemed to make it all ever so much worse. There was a hard edge to the dwarf’s voice now that may have been about to give way to anger if he hadn’t seemed too perplexed. “Do you mock me?”  
  
“What? No! No, not at all, no, I—”  
  
"Who did you think I was?" Confusion was definitely winning out now.  
  
"I don't know! Someone offering to get me an ale?" Bilbo spluttered, not daring to look his companion in the face. “Look, I’m sorry, and— oh dear, I seem to be saying that a lot tonight, don’t I? Look, I knew there was royalty here, but I... well, I-I... I didn’t know what you’d look like, did I? How was I supposed to? We’ve never met before, and it’s not as if you introduced yourself with that straight away, and—”  
  
"Calm yourself, Master—” The dwarf suddenly paused, then added in a lower tone. "I do not know your name. We come to sit here and drink together, and I do not even know what name to call you by. It hardly seems fair, considering you now know me as Thorin."  
  
 _Thorin_. It was such an unusual name— so different from those of the Shire— but, daring to edge his gaze up again to meet the dwarf’s, he knew somehow that he would never have been able to think of him by any other name.  
  
His thoughts were given all of a moment to settle, and then he realised Thorin was watching him expectantly.  
  
“Oh, yes, I... I suppose that’s... fair enough.” he stalled, trying desperately to concentrate on the moment and not on the voice in his head urging him not to make a mess of this as well. “My name... that is, I...”  
  
 _Not Durin_ , his mind commanded. _Not Durin. Definitely not Durin._ Anything _but Durin!_  
  
“Bil...bor.” He hoped it sounded similar enough to Bofur’s name and those of his brother and cousin not to stand out too much. When Thorin didn’t immediately react in confusion or anger, he dared half a smile and said, “I’m Bilbor.” Then, remembering Bofur’s greeting, added, “At your service.”  
  
Thorin offered a small smile in return and nodded graciously. “Bilbor, then. Well met, Master Bilbor.” He raised his tankard. “Let’s drink to misunderstandings laid to rest.”  
  
Bilbo felt his eyes widen and tried to hide it by looking down to grab his own ale. “Yes, indeed!” Thorin said something then in the dwarven tongue as he clanked their tankards together. Bilbo made an agreeing sound, hoping that was the right response, and hurriedly took a drink.  
  
Suddenly, in the midst of everything else, a bit of familiarity had found him. “This is Crooked Furrow!” Bilbo said, smiling to himself. “They serve this at the Green Dragon—”  
  
It was only after the words had already left his mouth that he realised how much that one sentence had perhaps given away, but it was already too late to take it back. Thorin tilted his head curiously. "That is the inn in the town, correct? The hobbit inn?"  
  
Bilbo hesitated. "Yes, that's... that's right."  
  
Thorin considered this for a moment. "So you have lived here a while?"  
  
"Yes, I, er, grew up around here." Thorin’s eyes were piercing; it was very difficult to do anything but admit the truth under such scrutiny. _Or at least a bit of the truth_ , his conscience added snidely, only to be firmly quashed by his Tookish daring.  
  
Thorin leant across the table towards him, and for a moment Bilbo’s heart stuttered. "How many of you are there?" Bilbo was sure he could hear a note of hope in Thorin's voice, faint but there all the same. "Is there a community here?"  
  
"Oh no, no, there's not many of us. Just... just me and my parents." It wasn't even really that much of a lie. Bilbo supposed that deep down, he had always thought of his family as being himself and his parents. Certainly he had so many aunts, uncles and cousins of varying degrees than he knew what to do with, but truthfully none of them were particularly close to him— he had even caught more than a few of them joining in the talk about 'Mad Baggins' and his adventures, after all. Even now, with his parents gone, his idea of family still came down to the three of them and the cosy, comfortable evenings in front of the fire at Bag End. He swallowed hard against the painful lump he could feel rising in his throat.  
  
"But where did you come from before that?" Thorin persisted. "If not Ered Luin, then did you and your kin get separated as we left Erebor? Or perhaps you came from the Iron Hills?"  
  
He wondered briefly if he should say that he had been too young to remember, but quickly dismissed it. Forty five may well have been a decent, respectable age for a hobbit, but one of the few things he knew about dwarves was that they had a longer lifespan than hobbits. To Thorin, forty five might be the age of a child!  
  
"I... I'm not sure. They never said. The Shire is really all I've ever known, to be honest." Bilbo took a hasty swig from his tankard, then cleared his throat. "Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about Ered Luin then? You mentioned it before, when we were standing under the trees. That's where you've come from right?"  
  
"Aye." He looked like he wanted to probe further about Bilbo’s supposed dwarf clan, but he didn’t. Perhaps he could see that Bilbo seemed uncomfortable, or maybe it was down to kingly propriety. Whatever it was, Bilbo silently thanked whoever was sending him such luck tonight, even if they had also sent him that meddling wizard. “You’ve never been there, I take it?” It was almost more a statement than a question.  
  
Truth be told, the most that Bilbo had ever learnt about Ered Luin was that they lay far west of the Shire and that dwarves had settled there, and he would certainly never admit to anyone— least of all a dwarven king!— that he had lingered over them in maps, fingers tracing the mountain range, wondering what it was all like. But if there was one thing his upbringing had taught him about social interactions, it was that sometimes, occasionally, it might just pay off to pretend to know more than you really do.  
  
“No, although I’ve heard a little about the caverns there, and a lot of praise for the works from there,” he said, thinking of his mother’s tales about beautiful metalwork and exquisite gems. “I expect there's a lot of miners then?”  
  
"Yes, miners were in great demand. Ered Luin was rich in metals and gems, at least for a while.” Thorin snorted. “But our people practice a wide range of trades. After all, every dwarf has their own craft.” He paused, then added curiously, “What is yours, Master Bilbor?"

  
In the back of his mind, Bilbo wondered if this was what it felt like to be edging around a deep dark pit, trying desperately not to topple in.  
  
"Er... how do you mean?"  
  
"Your craft.” Thorin pressed. “The trade you have learnt. I do not think you have mentioned what it is you do. You have grown up with your kin separate from your people, but surely you have one?"  
  
Bilbo felt his eyes widen despite himself. Plenty of hobbits _did_ have a trade, but for a gentlehobbit like himself, his time was spent elsewhere: managing his finances, maintaining his home, keeping up in society. He had inherited his father’s love of reading and his mother’s love of writing and the love of all growing things that all hobbits shared, but nothing that could exactly be called a ‘craft’, unless you included his apparent ability to cause scandal as soon as looking out at the horizon.  
  
"Er... well... I look after the house, of course,” he said eventually, his words sounding lacking even to himself, “A-and I read as much as I can, and write whenever I get chance. But I suppose those hardly count, do they?"  
  
There was a pause. Thorin glanced away and took a deep swig of ale, which appeared to be agreement, although he didn’t appear to want to say as much. Bilbo felt his face redden and dropped his own gaze to the tabletop. _So much for acting like you know more than you do_ , he groaned inwardly.  
  
"I should introduce you to young Ori." Thorin said eventually, “He is a scribe, although he shares his family’s craft of weaving. Even if his brother will not stop complaining about how he can’t get his head out of his books for long enough to avoid snagging the warp.” There was half a smile in Thorin’s voice and Bilbo knew that this was meant to cheer him up, although it really had very little effect. Perhaps sensing this, the king continued in a lower voice, “Are you sure there is nothing? Perhaps you have not learnt it as a craft, but were taught it all the same?" But Bilbo could hear from his tone that this was unlikely, perhaps even more so than not having a craft at all. Dwarves quite obviously took pride in their work.  
  
"Well... I work a lot in the garden too. I grow things.” Normally it was a subject that Bilbo could talk for hours about, but he faltered at Thorin’s unreadable expression. “I suppose that’s... a bit unusual.”  
  
“Yes.” His answer was blunt, but not necessarily unkind. “We do not farm, or grow. We make, we trade. But I suppose... life must be different here. If you have lived all your life amongst these hobbits, I suppose...”  
  
“Well, yes, they value living things and good crops above a great many other things.” Bilbo almost snapped, feeling indignation spark within him briefly— _these hobbits, indeed!_ But then he remembered that Thorin had no way of knowing who he really was, incredible knack for social faux pas aside, and deflated a bit. "Er... do you have a craft also? Aside from being the king? Do kings have crafts?"

  
Thorin drew himself up a little. "Of course. All the Royal family learn crafts, the same as every dwarf. It is what Mahal intended for us; what he engraved into our souls when he forged us. Even if our first and foremost duties are to our people, we still need to have a craft, and our chosen callings are as varied as those of any other dwarves." There was pride in Thorin's voice, clear as day. "My sister crafts musical instruments. One of her sons is a bowyer, and the other a stone mason. But there have been all different types of crafts amongst our kin:sculptors, silversmiths, jewellers..."  
  
"Yes, I saw two dwarves at the market creating jewellery. It was lovely." Bilbo said, eager to latch onto a topic he might be able to contribute to. "Siri and Torda, I think they were called? Beautiful items, really beautiful."  
  
Thorin frowned. "Siri and Torda? You mean dwarrowdams, surely?"  
  
Bilbo felt his face flush. _Curse this language!_ "O-oh yes, of course. Er, slip of the tongue. I'm sorry." He coughed and hurriedly decided that it was time to divert the conversation. "But you haven't told me what it is that you do?"  
  
It seemed to do the trick. "I learnt swordsmithing from a young age. It was a craft that held great interest for me, and of course it is of great use to a warrior."  
  
"Tell me more about your craft. Please? I would love to know more about what you do."  
  
"Very well."  
  
He could have sat there all night, Bilbo realised, as he let Thorin's voice wash over him. He listened to how different blades were forged, and what they were used for. Thorin's descriptions were vivid and detailed as he told him about the forges at Ered Luin and, before that at Erebor; they were so clear that for a moment it was as if Bilbo was standing there himself amidst the heat and bustle of the forges, eyes caught by white hot metal, ears ringing with each fall of the hammer. More than once he broke into words or phrases that Bilbo couldn’t understand, but Bilbo tried not to let it show, nodding eagerly and focusing instead on the way the dwarf’s face seemed at once bright with enthusiasm and heavy with sorrow all at once. They drained their tankards and Thorin broke off briefly to fetch another two, only for them to sit mostly untouched as the conversation continued. It was the little details that struck him: the way Thorin’s hands would trace particular familiar gestures as he spoke, the lamplight catching glints of silver in his dark hair, the hint of a smile in his voice before it reached his lips.  
  
"Of course," Thorin was saying, "There's very little time for swordsmithing when you have a kingdom to run. Or when you have no forges to use.”  
  
Bilbo nodded, having no direct experience but presuming it was true enough. Then something occurred to him. "You have left Ered Luin, but... where are you going to?”  
  
"Belegost.” Thorin replied. “South of the gulf.”  
  
Different maps and charts sprung to Bilbo’s mind from where rainy afternoons in his study had committed them to memory. His eyes widened as he realised just how far that was.  
  
“But... you’ve come so far! Surely there was a quicker way?” he blurted, then clapped a hand to his mouth when he realised how that must have sounded. “Not that I... er, that is, of course I’m glad that you’re here, but I just...”  
  
Thorin waved away his stuttering. “You are right, Master Bilbor. We considered it, of course. But this was the only way with so many families coming along the journey. And I would not leave my people behind.”  
  
“No, of course not! But isn’t it still awfully far to go? Will you make it before winter?”  
  
“We must.” There was an awful finality in his voice that made Bilbo picture empty halls, cold and desolate, with nothing left for anyone. “It's our last hope.”  
  
It was in that moment, looking around at the party, that Bilbo realised just how faded the decorations looked: worn, mended, even patched in places. He wondered how far they had been dragged along, how long they had spent crumpled at the bottom of sacks or crammed into the sides of trunks. The spirit of the dwarves hadn't been quashed, but he realised that he was looking at a mere reflection of their former glory. How crushing for their king this must be, to sit here in this simple clearing and dream of the magnificent halls he had once known.  
  
In that moment he felt something welling up inside him, something so sudden he had no name for it or words to describe it. Almost without thinking, he reached out towards the dwarf’s hand, fingertips just barely brushing the back of it as he said, "Thorin..."  
  
Suddenly there was a commotion: a blast of horns, a clash of drums. Startled, Bilbo withdrew his hand almost as though he'd been burnt, head turning this way and that as he tried to figure out what in the world was happening. It was only when he realised that there was no sudden stampede of dwarves that he glanced over at Thorin, only to find him laughing. Bilbo’s heart was still pounding furiously, so much so that he couldn’t quite bring himself to tell Thorin off.  
  
"Er... what's going on?"  
  
"It will be a new day in thirty minutes. That was to call everyone together for the end of tonight’s celebration." Thorin was glancing over his shoulder, scanning the crowds, and did not notice how his words were like a bucket of ice over Bilbo.  
  
Bilbo stood abruptly, almost knocking over the bench. The noise must have alerted Thorin, because his head whipped back around and he leapt to his feet as well. "Where are you going?"  
  
"I didn't realise... it's so late, I have to... I'm sorry..."  
  
Thorin stepped in front of him. Bilbo took a deep breath, fists clenching absently at his sides as he looked up into the dwarf's face and hoped desperately that he wasn't going to have to force his way past him.  
  
But then Thorin was holding out his hand towards him. Blinking in surprise, Bilbo took it in his own in an almost automatic way and— _oh_. His hand was larger even than Bilbo's dwarven hands were, hardened and calloused by years of work but warm against Bilbo's skin, and—  
  
"Go, as you must," Thorin said, "But you'll return tomorrow, won't you?"  
  
Shaking himself from his thoughts, trying desperately not to blush again, Bilbo nodded. He didn’t have the heart to do otherwise. "Er, yes, I'll... I'll try, certainly." And then, to ease the guilt at his obvious lie, he added, "Thank you, Thorin. For... well, everything this evening. It's been... just... thank you."  
  
Thorin smiled then, just slightly, and released Bilbo's hand to nudge at his shoulder instead. "Go. And I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
Bilbo didn't dare say anything else, too worried that he would slip up and reveal that he couldn't come back, and then why that was and—  
  
So instead he turned and hurried off into the forest again, breaking into a full run despite his boots as soon as the laughter and commotion from the clearing began to fade a little.  
  
He made it back home in time, which was just as well because the transformation back into a hobbit turned out to involve just as much noise and smoke as his transformation into a dwarf.


	7. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What does it matter anyway? Why should I care? The celebrations may well go on for three nights, but me being a dwarf was only ever going to be for the one._
> 
> His Baggins side kicked in at that point, hard enough to make him frown at himself. _Well, there’s no point moping about. I was lucky enough to get one night! And all that fuss about transforming... no, it’s a good thing that I won’t be doing that again!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the feedback! :)
> 
> So, Bilbo and Thorin have finally met! Sort of. But unfortunately Bilbo is a hobbit again, with no hope of making it to the next ball...

The sun was already high in the sky by the time Bilbo awoke. It was a clear day with a crisp blue sky, perfect for the light to pierce right into the room past the shutters he had forgotten to close last night and shake him into awareness.  
  
A groan rose from deep in his chest as he tried to put his thoughts together. His mind was muddled, his head fuzzy and already aching.  
  
Then all of a sudden it hit him like a thunder bolt.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
 _Oh!_  
  
 _I was at the ball. I was... I was at a dwarven ball!_  
  
Hurriedly, he jolted his hands out in front of his face, scrutinising them as hard as his sleep-clogged eyes would allow him to, turning them this way and that as his vision slowly cleared and confirmed for him that, yes, these were his own hands, and no, they weren't at all large or hairy in a distinctly un-Hobbitish fashion. He heaved a sigh through his nose, relief seeping through his aching body, and let his arms collapse heavily back onto the mattress.  
  
Wait. Aching.  
  
 _Yes, aching... the pain of being pulled in all directions, and all that hair sprouting... I don't think I've ever itched so much in my life! And all that smoke and sparkles of course, I'm quite sure that wasn't necessary, trust Gandalf to show off at any opportunity..._  
  
Bilbo's thoughts trailed off as he stared at the ceiling— the same old familiar ceiling from yesterday morning and the morning before that and so many mornings before— and took a deep breath before letting himself think the impossible.  
  
 _So... it really did happen then. I didn't just go to the dwarven ball. I was one of them!_  
  
And that was when he remembered how he had spent most of that evening. Dark hair came to mind, threaded with silver. Steely eyes and strong, sharp features. The blue coat, the sleeves that had felt coarse under his hands, yet looked so regal on the dwarf in front of him.  
  
On the _king_ in front of him, still regal despite being in exile.  
  
He hadn't just spent the evening in the company of a dwarf— and a very handsome one at that— but in the company of a _king_.  
  
A king who had no idea who— or what— he really was.  
  
Bilbo felt his cheeks burn. _Oh dear. Isn't it a crime to lie to the king? Although, I suppose technically I didn't lie. Did I ever say the words 'I am a dwarf'? No, no, of course not. That would have been far too obvious and they would have suspected something was amiss. So is it lying by omission because I didn't tell them I'm a Hobbit really? No, no, don't be ridiculous, Bilbo... they never would have believed me anyway, so how would I have been able to do that? I wouldn't. So that was never an option.  
  
_ He turned onto his side, arm clasped around him. _What does it matter anyway? Why should I care? The celebrations may well go on for three nights, but me being a dwarf was only ever going to be for the one._  
  
His Baggins side kicked in at that point, hard enough to make him frown at himself. _Well, there’s no point moping about. I was lucky enough to get one night! And all that fuss about transforming... no, it’s a good thing that I won’t be doing_ that _again!_  
  
It was hunger that drove him out of bed in the end, as he realised he’d not eaten since before the ball itself, something that seemed almost unthinkable for any hobbit. But even his empty stomach couldn’t quite drown out the Baggins voice inside him tutting about the sheer _mess_ in the hallway. Muddy boot prints tracked in from the forest; the boots themselves were lying carelessly by the coat hooks, torn off just before his feet had expanded again. One of the hallway tables had been knocked over when he had stumbled into it, thrown aside by the twists of bones and turns of muscles as he shrunk back down to his normal size. And that was even before you got to all the _hair_. Bilbo grimaced at the memory of clumps of it coming free in his hands or falling softly to the floor through the haze of smoke and sparks. That certainly wasn’t something he was eager to repeat.  
  
Breakfast (Brunch? Lunch? Exactly what time _was_ it anyway?) took distinctly less time than it should, considering he was a hobbit with a healthy appetite that hadn’t eaten in so long. The most obvious reason struck him as he found his fingers itching for ink and parchment. _A few decent hours of writing, that will sort me out, no doubt about it._  
  
But he soon found himself sitting there, the pages in front of him dotted with the odd word now blurred with a frustrated scribble and then endlessly blank. He sat with his head in his hands as the minutes dragged on, searching desperately for somewhere to start but just not knowing where. Should he start with the music and noise? Friendly Bofur and his family easing his fears for a while? The way the dwarves (and dwarrowdams, he reminded himself, groaning inwardly at the memory of his mistake) had looked that evening, how they had laughed and chatted and rushed around? Or maybe he should just start with Thorin, the pride in his voice when he spoke of his family and his home, the almost smile that curved the corner of his mouth every now and then, the warmth of his hand in Bilbo’s?  
  
When he eventually admitted to himself that he was going to get absolutely nothing done that day, Bilbo forced himself out of the smial to take a nice long walk, thinking that it might clear his head. But even that was no use. No matter how beautiful the day, he saw nothing of the open fields and bubbling streams, because his head was so full of the forest. He should have been revelling in the feel of good healthy grass beneath his toes— no more ridiculous boots, ever!— but all he could think of was an almost startled laugh, an invitation to return...  
  
Feeling perhaps even more despondent than when he’d set off, Bilbo headed home. If he hadn’t been so intently watching the ground, he might have noticed the decidedly tall figure sitting on his garden bench before he reached his own front gate.  
  
“Gandalf?” he asked incredulously, before realising that it was beyond ridiculous to be surprised. Gandalf was Gandalf, which had so often stood for contradiction in the past that Bilbo was sure he’d have spotted it earlier if it hadn’t been for his preoccupation.  
  
“Bilbo, my dear fellow!” the wizard called, waving his lit pipe towards him in greeting. Of course he had made himself right at home, and here Bilbo was standing outside of his own front gate like a hesitant visitor!  
  
Letting himself in, Bilbo asked, “Shouldn’t you be in Bree by now?”  
  
“Hmm?” Gandalf puffed idly at his pipe. “Oh yes. Quite right, I should be.”  
  
“So why aren’t you then?”  
  
“Why aren’t I what?”  
  
“In Bree.” Bilbo stood in front of him, hands on hips.  
  
“Ah yes. Dreadful business. My cart broke, you see. Couldn’t carry on until it’s fixed.”  
  
The casual way Gandalf said this made Bilbo falter for a moment before he could point out, “You’re a wizard.”  
  
“Yes, I’m quite aware of the fact.” Gandalf smiled as though talking to a particularly insistent fauntling.  
  
“So couldn’t you have just... you know... used magic to fix your cart?”  
  
Gandalf frowned slightly. “Oh come now, Bilbo, you know my powers are for other, more important tasks, not everyday chores.”  
  
“Like fireworks, I suppose?” Bilbo asked flatly.  
  
Gandalf coughed slightly. “Anyway, the cartwright will be glad of the business. His wife’s just had their seventh, you know, so there’s plenty of hungry mouths to feed. But enough of that!” He patted the seat next to him. “I believe you have a lot to tell me. How was everything?”  
  
Bilbo considered his options, eventually concluding that not only would Gandalf never drop the subject if he didn’t want to, he also actually wanted to tell someone about his evening. Once upon a time perhaps he could have shared it with his parents— they would have been eager to hear all about it, even though his father would have been choked in shock more than once— but with them gone, there was no one else in the Shire to tell.  
  
So he sat down and talked. Gandalf, as always, knew just where to prod him with a question or gesture to keep him telling the story in a way he just hadn’t been able to do when faced with the blank pages on his desk. He was an attentive audience and Bilbo found himself talking until almost everything was told; everything, that was, except for his impressions of Thorin. But Gandalf seemed to not even notice that Bilbo was talking about the king and Bilbo, caught up in his story, didn’t realise this and so didn’t find it suspicious in the least.  
  
When he had finished, Gandalf took another puff on his pipe. “So I suppose you will be returning this evening?” he asked.  
  
There was something too simplistic about that question. Bilbo looked up at him sideways. “Wait... are you...”  
  
“And,” Gandalf continued, “I must admit I’m quite pleased at how well it all turned out for a first attempt. Quite pleased indeed.”  
  
For a moment he couldn’t breathe at the realisation. “W-wait— excuse me? What did you say?”  
  
“Oh come now, Bilbo, no harm done.” Gandalf smiled. “Besides, this will be a second time around, won’t it?”  
  
It was one of those moments where Bilbo had the distinct impression of standing at a fork in the road, carefully considering both options before his Took side grabbed hold of him and went tearing in whichever direction looked more exciting: in this case, towards the memory of a dwarven king and the chance of keeping a promise about returning that evening that he had never expected to be able to keep.  
  
 _Well, he does have a point there,_ Bilbo thought, feeling almost like an unrealised weight had been lifted from him, _I suppose... what could it hurt?_  
  
\-----  
  
A lot, it turned out, even the second time around. It could hurt a _lot_.


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili and Kíli exchanged a look at that point, before Fíli ventured, “Well, he seems... happy.”
> 
> “Happy.” Dís said flatly. 
> 
> “Yes, happy.”
> 
> There was a pause as she considered both of her sons. When she spoke, she kept her tone serious and slow, because being of age or not, they still insisted on behaving like children. “You do realise that that is a good thing, Fíli, and that I’m sure you’ve seen your uncle less than miserable on several occasions over the years—"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whilst Bilbo is dealing with Gandalf, it's time to quickly check in with Thorin and family ahead of the next ball...

It was Fíli who raised the topic the next day as they sat down to a quick lunch together. Dís was pleased to see that both he and Kíli were looking considerably less queasy than they had at breakfast, although Kíli was still somewhat pale and only half-heartedly picking at his food.  
  
Young dwarves today just couldn’t hold their ale. She sighed inwardly and made a mental note to ask around for tales of any antics she might have missed last night. She was building quite the back catalogue to share with their father once they met again in Mahal’s halls. The way it currently stood, he may have just about finished laughing by the time the boys joined them, but it would never hurt to have more stories to pass the time.

She could tell that whatever Fíli was about to say was troubling him, because he brought it up almost immediately after they began to eat.

“Mother, have you noticed... well. Uncle seems a little... _off_ today, doesn’t he?”  
  
“Off?” Dís asked, raising an eyebrow. She hadn’t managed to catch her brother today, as he had still been sleeping when she had left that morning, and had already departed for his duties by the time she had returned. “How do you mean?”  
  
Fili and Kíli exchanged a look at that point, before Fíli ventured, “Well, he seems... happy.”  
  
“Happy.” Dís said flatly.   
  
“Yes, happy.”  
  
There was a pause as she considered both of her sons. When she spoke, she kept her tone serious and slow, because being of age or not, they still insisted on behaving like children. “You do realise that that is a good thing, Fíli, and that I’m sure you’ve seen your uncle less than miserable on several occasions over the years—“  
  
“Yeah, but not like this!” Kíli interrupted, sounding almost scandalised. “He was whistling!”  
  
That stopped her dead.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yes, exactly!” Fíli said, nodding. “He was whistling as he came in to breakfast, and smiling! And then when I asked him about it—“  
  
“When _we_ asked him—“  
  
“It was definitely me, Kee, you were too busy groaning over your plate— anyway, when I asked him about it, he just laughed!”  
  
Laughing? Smiling? Certainly she’d seen him do that on occasion, but _whistling_ as well? Frerin had been a terrible whistler who insisted on creating a tune at any possible occasion, but Dís couldn’t think of a single time she had heard Thorin do that. She almost had to stop herself from asking if they were sure if it had really been Thorin who had walked in that morning.  
  
“Well.” was all she could say. “Well, that is rather unusual. Perhaps when I catch up with him later he’ll be able to enlighten us about what’s got him in such a good mood.” She smiled at them both. “Now, eat up. There’s a busy afternoon ahead to get ready for tonight.” Spotting her younger son’s despondent expression, she added, “Even for you, Kíli, some hard work and fresh air will do you good.”  
  
Of course, what she didn’t tell them was the way her mind was working a mile a minute to process what little information they had been able to give her. Perhaps gathering embarrassing stories about her sons would have to wait, if there was intriguing news to be had about her elder brother. She was sure her dear late husband would forgive her under the circumstances.  
  
\-----  
  
In reality, Thorin was somewhat torn.  
  
On the one hand, how could it be easy to do anything but smile at the memory of last night? As much as he disliked the need to stand on ceremony for a whole evening, he had just about reached the point of wondering whether his royal duties weren't something of a blessing at occasions like this. Of course he would never begrudge Dwalin the time to join in the drinking contests with his fellow warriors— or himself the time to place a bet or three on the outcome— but there was only so long he could stand and watch and be interested in the polite small talk of dwarves who were obviously desperate to petition the king for this or that but unsure on the etiquette at such a time.  
  
And then the strange dwarf had stumbled into him. He barely knew even now just why he had raced after him, just that his feet had been moving before he had even had chance to register it himself. Perhaps it was the rushed apologies, the sense of urgency that seemed to be coursing through him as he pulled away and ran.   
  
But then, on the other hand... Thorin frowned to himself. The sheer anxiety was a cause for concern. As impoverished and hard done by as his people may be, he was sure he had never before met a dwarf so full of fear who was not about to charge into battle. Certainly terror had no place at a ball like last night's! So what, then, was the cause?   
  
Bilbor had been so insistent on leaving. Where did he live? Perhaps he should find out. Where had his kin come from— had they been separated from the rest after Smaug, or broken away from the community at Ered Luin? Perhaps they had come from one of the other clans? Bilbor had seemed so overwhelmed by everything around him and so easily startled that Thorin had found himself unwilling to push the issue further lest Bilbor try to run again and any chance of finding out be lost for good. And, truly, there seemed little point in asking Bilbor for more details, Thorin thought, considering that he seemed to know so very little of his own history and customs.  
  
That in itself made Thorin feel sick to his stomach. To have never known the great halls of a dwarven kingdom, or a traditional celebration, or the wonder of a craft, or perhaps even the friendship of others... Bilbor had stared so wide eyed around at everything and everyone that one would almost think he had never seen another dwarf in front of him before, let alone an entire gathering! But he had been so inquisitive, though cautiously so, and so eager to listen; even at his most snappish with an edge to his tone that suggested he could barely believe Thorin was talking with him.  
  
Then something struck Thorin: the way Bilbor would hum vaguely at some points of the conversation. The way he would try to disguise his confusion. Thorin's eyes widened.  
  
 _Great Mahal. Does he even know his own language?_  
  
His grip on his quill had tightened dangerously. He forced himself to relax his grip— Balin would have his head if he ruined this report as well— and told himself firmly instead that in any case his concerns would have to wait until later. There was nothing he could do yet but wait until he saw Bilbor next and put his conclusions to him.  
  
There was one thing that he was certain of, however. He was certainly would be taking his sister’s advice about spending time amongst his people, even if there was only one dwarf he specifically wished to see. That evening he knew he would spend searching the crowds for brown braids and that warm, hesitant smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is the second ball. I promise!
> 
> Also, come find me on [tumblr](http://synchronyshattered.tumblr.com/) for more ramblings!


	9. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You do not need to say anything. I can see it in your eyes." And then, with a sharp intake of breath, anger bloomed across Thorin's face. "A dwarf without a craft, without even their own language! Never in my life did I expect to see such a thing!"
> 
> Bilbo's voice came flooding back to him, strained and cracked though it was. "Please, I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I didn't want to... I mean, I... I didn't know what to say, so I just... didn't. Oh goodness, I just... I can leave, I'm so sorry, I never meant to—”
> 
> "Leave?" Thorin whirled towards him, face suddenly creased in a frown. "I do not want you to leave, Master Bilbor. That is not what I meant at all, I—”

On his way into the forest, Bilbo turned the issue of Thorin over and over in his mind, as though returning to his dwarven form was a sudden excuse to open the floodgates. He didn't expect this evening's gathering to be any less hectic than the last, and their meeting had been entirely by chance— how was he supposed to locate one single dwarf amongst so many, king or not? _And that's even if he wants to see me,_ Bilbo told himself firmly, _after all, he's got a whole kingdom of dwarves to pick from!_  
  
He had worn the same dark red jacket and deep green waistcoat as the night before. Of course, that was simply a practical matter. As he’d pointed out to Gandalf, he was sure that the clothes had stretched at least a little during last night’s transformation, and why risk that happening to another outfit? It had nothing to do with trying to look familiar. Nothing at all.

But it turned out that his worries were for nothing, because as soon as he arrived at the clearing he found Thorin lingering by the trees nearest the main pathway. The way he turned to him, his posture relaxing, and started walking towards him so quickly made it clear he had been waiting for him. Bilbo was sure that his beard went absolutely no way at all to hiding his wide, relieved smile.  
  
“Bilbor, idmi!” Thorin said as they stopped in front of each other. “Sakhmi astû galikh!” For a moment, Bilbo found himself struck by the difference in their heights and wondering just how much more pronounced it would have been had he been standing here in his true form.  
  
“Good evening,” he managed eventually, realising that he was just staring at Thorin and smiling like a fool. He gestured past Thorin to the already bustling crowds. “Not already sampling tonight’s ale then?”  
  
Thorin smiled. “No, not yet. It wouldn’t do to drink alone, would it?” Bilbo blinked at the implication, feeling a stuttering question work its way into his throat, but Thorin was already continuing rapidly in words that Bilbo didn’t understand. His heart froze for a second, and then sank completely.  
  
_Khuzdul_ , his mind supplied, _and of course I— oh dear._  
  
But, perhaps buoyed by last night’s apparent success, he immediately decided the best thing to do was to persevere. After all, he was a Baggins. He had spent his entire life navigating social interactions; he knew exactly how these conversations went and, with any luck, he would be able to disguise his lack of knowledge once they were in amongst the din of the party.  
  
“I’m well, thank you. I’ve been looking forward to tonight.” He put on his best smile, hoping that what had convinced the newly married Sackville-Bagginses that he was happy to attend their wedding was also good enough to convince a dwarven king that everything was in order. This time around, it wasn’t a lie: he really had been looking forward to this all day, even when he hadn’t thought it would be possible, and now he was eager to enjoy the evening.  
  
Thorin tilted his head slightly and responded with something else in Khuzdul: not so fast this time, but still nothing that Bilbo had any chance of understanding. He forced a slight laugh, hoping that that was acceptable, and said, "I hope you haven't been waiting too long. Maybe we should—” He gestured beyond Thorin, hoping that this would be the end of it, and made to move past him.  
  
Thorin's hand descended heavily on Bilbo's shoulder. His heart seemed torn between pounding its way through his ribs and stopping altogether.  
  
“Master Bilbor—”  
  
Behind him, Bilbo could hear the laughter and chatter of some approaching dwarves. From the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin look up to where they must be emerging, and had only a split second to realise this before suddenly he was being bundled off the track and through the trees, deeper into the wood. He stumbled over brambles and fallen branches and his own feet— _blasted boots!_ — before Thorin brought them to an abrupt halt, out of sight of the path.  
  
Bilbo took the opportunity to break away from Thorin's grip, rounding on him with balled fists. "What on earth do you think you are—”  
  
"Tell me the truth," Thorin interrupted. "You didn't understand a word of what I said to you, did you?"  
  
_Oh no._  
  
“I-I don’t know what—” He tried to look his most indignant, but to no avail.  
  
"I said the night was clear, and you responded that you were very well, thank you. And then when I repeated the phrase to you, you tried to change the subject." Thorin watched him for a long moment, clearly weighing up how to proceed, before he continued in a low, grave voice, "Master Bilbor... you do not speak Khuzdul, do you?"  
  
Bilbo said nothing. His mind was entirely blank, apart from a vague, ringing hysteria building up inside him. Luckily for him, Thorin did not seem to need an answer.  
  
"You do not need to say anything. I can see it in your eyes." And then, with a sharp intake of breath, anger bloomed across Thorin's face. "A dwarf without a craft, without even their own language! Never in my life did I expect to see such a thing!"  
  
Bilbo's voice came flooding back to him, strained and cracked though it was. "Please, I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I didn't want to... I mean, I... I didn't know what to say, so I just... didn't. Oh goodness, I just... I can leave, I'm so sorry, I never meant to—”  
  
"Leave?" Thorin whirled towards him, face suddenly creased in a frown. "I do not want you to leave, Master Bilbor. That is not what I meant at all, I—” He heaved an angry sigh, running a hand over his face. For a moment neither spoke; neither moved. When Thorin broke the silence, his voice was calmer, more obviously controlled. "I am not angry with you, Bilbor. You have grown up isolated here. But your kin, did they never...?" He trailed off, apparently unable to suggest something that must have seemed so impossible to him.  
  
"It's not that, they..." Bilbo had no idea what to say. In that moment all he could see was a strange image of what his dwarven parents would have looked like: his mother with a rich brown beard to match her hair and frame her merry smile, his father’s hands burnt from the forge as well as the oven. "They... they really... oh dear, I..."  
  
Thorin held up a hand.  "There is no need to explain. I... am sorry that I startled you.” He paused, then muttered, “My sister says that I have a quicker temper than a cave troll, but please understand that my anger has never been caused by you.”  
  
Any humour Bilbo might have found in Thorin’s sister’s assessment of him was promptly dampened by the thought of just how quickly Thorin might take back his words if he ever found out the truth.  
  
"I am also sorry that I tricked you. But it was the only way I could know for sure. If I had outright asked you... well. I do not think you would have told me, would you?"  
  
Bilbo shook his head, knowing full well that Thorin was right.  
  
Thorin considered him for a long moment, and eventually said, “Very well, then. I will teach you.”  
  
Bilbo looked up, shocked. “Oh, but I couldn’t—”  
  
“Couldn’t what?”  
  
He faltered, wondering how to get around it. “It’s just, I mean... Khuzdul is a very... private matter, isn’t it? It’s not for...”  
  
“Bilbor,” Thorin said firmly, taking hold of his shoulders. Suddenly it was as though Bilbo’s entire self was focused on Thorin’s grasp, reassuring this time instead of seeming like a threat. “You are a dwarf, no matter where you came from or how you have grown up. You have as much right as any dwarf to everything that was intended for us, whether it is our language or a craft or...” He trailed off, then shook his head decisively, just once. “I will teach you, and we will start tonight, right now.”  
  
“But—”  
  
"You will pick it up easier than you may think," Thorin said. "Our language is written as deeply into us as our craft." Bilbo opened his mouth automatically about to protest that he didn't have a craft, and Thorin cut him off, "Written into us, but that does not mean we can use it automatically. We are given these gifts, but in return it is up to us to unlock them, whether it's through years of apprenticeship or hours spent studying verb forms."

Seeing Bilbo wide eyed he smirked briefly, probably assuming that Bilbo was overwhelmed at the idea of so much formal study, but that was only half true— Bilbo had an ear for languages after all, and spoke passing Sindarin as well as Westron, even if he couldn't admit that to a dwarf! No, it was more Thorin's determination to share this with him that had him amazed. How passionate he had become at the idea Bilbo had been denied something that was rightfully his, and how set he was to make things— as he saw it, at least— right.  
  
"Thorin—”

"Do not worry. We won't be doing any of that tonight— there would be no time, and I would have you enjoy tonight. Otherwise you might not come back tomorrow.” Bilbo laughed, albeit awkwardly. "We will cover some basics for now, and there'll be plenty of time for grammar and verbs another time. Perhaps I'll recruit Balin— my cousin and adviser," he clarified at Bilbo's questioning expression, "He always had more of a knack for such things than I did."

"No doubt you were too eager to run off to the smithy and make more swords.” Bilbo joked automatically. Realising what he'd said as soon as the words had left his tongue he clapped a hand over his mouth. But Thorin laughed— the same half-startled, incredulous bark of a laugh as last night, as though he couldn't quite believe someone had said that to him.  
  
“You wouldn’t be far wrong,” he agreed, “Although I think that is enough stalling for now. Let us begin with some basics.”  
  
He glanced around and then was guiding Bilbo to sit on a fallen tree trunk. They were half turned towards each other, knees just barely touching, and Bilbo marvelled for a moment that he could see Thorin’s face so clearly even in the gloom away from the lanterns of the party. There was certainly a lot to be said for dwarvish eyesight when it came to dark evenings.  
  
“Now, what I said to you earlier was _idmi_ , meaning ‘welcome’. Try it.”  
  
It was a simple enough word, even though the sounds felt strange in Bilbo’s mouth, and his smile matched Thorin’s own when he managed it. He found any guilt slowly easing. _Surely a greeting or two can’t hurt?_ he thought. _After all, it’s just pleasantries, not exactly any big secrets... and Thorin_ wants _to teach me. Surely, then..._  
  
“Good. Now, if I had asked you how you were, I would have said _zûr astu_ —try that as well.”  
  
Bilbo did, finding that his voice sounded a little too automatic; the words themselves had no meaning for him yet, save that which Thorin had told him. Thorin made him repeat them a few times until he was satisfied that they sounded more relaxed. Then something else came to Bilbo’s mind.  
  
“What was the other thing you said to me before?” he asked, face scrunching as he tried to remember the unfamiliar words. “Something like... sak... sakimhi...”  
  
“ _Sakhmi astû galikh_?” Thorin supplied, and Bilbo nodded, a little relieved that he hadn’t had to attempt the whole phrase himself. Thorin hesitated for a long moment. “It means that it is good to see you again.”  
  
Bilbo couldn’t help the surprised breath that he took then. Perhaps he had known it in the way that Thorin had been waiting by the pathway, but hearing it spoken so plainly was something else. Warmth burst from his heart and for a long moment all he could do was smile.  
  
\-----  
  
They continued for some time in this way. Thorin ran him through what he considered to be the most common words and phrases that Bilbo would need, and would not let him give up when he stumbled and sighed in frustration.  
  
Bilbo’s previous experiences with Sindarin had been quite different. The Elves may have been far more open with their language and their willingness it to teach others, but the lessons had been very formal and rigidly structured. There was something very real about the way that Thorin was teaching him. There was no gradual edging through verbs and tenses— although Bilbo could tell that both would be extremely important if he was to ever truly grasp the language— but instead a head first plunge into everyday sentences that he would, in theory, be using all the time.  
  
He felt a spark of triumph whenever he managed to perfect something, and found himself grinning like a fool at Thorin, who seemed just as pleased although he had more restraint. Little by little the lingering guilt faded away until it was almost completely forgotten.  
  
_And,_ he reasoned with himself, _it’s not as if I will ever be telling anyone about this. Goodness, the list of scandals they’ve attached to my name must be so long that I doubt they’ve got room to add speaking Khuzdul to it!_  
  
His accent was probably atrocious and it was certainly frustrating to be corrected so often when he used the wrong word or pronunciation, but Bilbo found that most of him didn’t mind. Especially because so much of his concentration had to go on watching the shapes Thorin’s mouth made as he sounded the words, purely so that he could mimic it himself.  
  
Just when he was thinking that he would be happy to pass the entire evening like this, Thorin stood abruptly and said, “Come, let us pause there. I think you’re ready.”  
  
“R-ready?” Bilbo felt jolted by the suddenness of it all. “Ready for what?”  
  
“To see more of the ball.” Thorin replied. When Bilbo didn’t move, he held out his hand. “Come on. I will stay by your side the entire time, if you would like me to.”  
  
For once, both his Baggins side and his Took side seemed to be in perfect agreement that it would be rude to refuse, and almost before he knew it he had taken Thorin’s hand and was allowing him to help him to his feet. Before Thorin could start guiding them back to the path, Bilbo laid his free hand on his arm.  
  
“Thorin, thank you. You’re a good teacher. Very patient.”  
  
Thorin snorted. “It’s not a word many would use to describe me, Bilbor. But I suppose I’ve had practice.”  
  
“With your nephews?” he guessed.  
  
Thorin nodded. “Yes. And before them, my sister and brother.”  
  
“Your brother? I don’t think you mentioned him last night.” Bilbo asked curiously. “Is he here too?”  
  
Thorin’s face stiffened immediately. “No. No, he is not.”  
  
He knew that expression; had worn it himself when Gandalf appeared at his front door five years ago, asking after Belladonna and proposing another trip. He also remembered in that instant the way Gandalf had corrected him so quickly when he had assumed the prince was the king’s brother. “Thorin, I’m so—”  
  
Thorin shook his head. “There is no need. You did not know.” Bilbo could tell from the simple, straightforward tone that he perhaps considered it to be expected, given that Bilbo obviously knew so little about his own people. It did nothing to eliminate the knot of guilt in his stomach.  
  
Picking a careful route through the trees and back to the pathway was much easier this time, now that Thorin wasn’t so urgent and fear wasn’t coursing through Bilbo’s veins. He barely even noticed the boots dragging his every step, focused as he was on getting back to the party. Almost as an afterthought, Thorin’s hand uncurled from his own as they stepped up through the trees and towards the very edge of the clearing. But Bilbo barely had a chance to register what he felt about that, because Thorin was turning to him almost immediately, saying, “Stay close to me.”  
  
_Well, who am I to go against a king’s wishes?_ That was definitely the Took side; Bilbo suspected his Baggins self had hidden away in despair.  
  
Navigating your way through a dwarven party was apparently much easier when you were following close on the heels of a king, but within minutes of them setting off into the crowds, Thorin looped an arm around his shoulder, dragging him forward and drawing him in tight against his side. “Here.”  
  
Bilbo felt his face reddening, but didn’t protest. It turned out it was even easier to get through the crowds when you were beside the king, so there was really no point in saying anything even if he had wanted to.  
  
Although Thorin’s arm had dropped from his shoulder almost immediately, it felt companionable to walk so closely together. Every so often he would point something out and lean down to whisper the Khuzdul word for it, his breath hot against Bilbo’s ear in a way that absolutely did not make him shiver, thank you very much.  
  
Other dwarves were continually trying to get Thorin's attention about this or that. Bilbo was sure he must have organised at least half a dozen different meetings and audiences before they had even crossed the clearing once. Thorin introduced him to them, although Bilbo smiled and bowed and greeted them, his head was soon reeling with so many names. Perhaps Thorin realised this, because he was quick to move them on as politely as he seemed capable of.  
  
_Was it Oin or Gloin who wanted to talk to him about medical supplies?_ Bilbo wondered. _Which one kept mentioning to his son?_  
  
“Over there— my nephews,” Thorin said. Bilbo craned his neck to try to see past the sea of hair and hats. “The elder, Fíli, is the blond. His brother Kíli is one who appears to have been dragged backwards through the undergrowth on his way here, even tonight; it is he who has come of age.”  
  
“Did you want to...”  
  
“No. Not yet, at least.” Thorin’s smile was fond but his tone was wry. “They’re a bit... energetic. Best leave their mother to handle them tonight.”  
  
“Perhaps another time then.” Bilbo said, half-automatically out of politeness. Thorin, however, seemed pleased by the suggestion.  
  
“Yes, perhaps. For now, how about moving on? There may be several dwarves between us and them but Kíli has a keen eye and I do not trust him not to spot us if we linger overlong.”  
  
Bilbo grinned, thinking of his own various schemes to hide from meddling relatives, and allowed Thorin to steer him away. Within a minute he realised that they were headed towards the dancefloor. The current musicians were stepping down from the platform to take a rest and a new group were taking over. In amongst them, he spotted upcurling braids and a distinctive hat. Bofur waved when he saw him, flute in hand, but then did a double take, brow creasing. Bilbo cleared his throat nervously, knowing he must have spotted Thorin so close beside him, and looked away. Thorin didn't appear to notice a thing.  
  
"Do you dance, Bilbor?"  
  
Bilbo laughed. "Not tonight, I don't! I wouldn't know the steps. I'm happy just to watch for now, thank you!”  
  
Truth be told, he felt breathless just standing on the sidelines as the dwarves whirled and span on the makeshift dance floor. It all looked so complicated, as though one wrong step from a single dwarf would send the whole thing into a chaos, and yet there were bits that were similar: the way the dancers pulled their partners close after spinning them around, the smiles on their faces, the way the children crowded near the musicians and tried to copy the adults... he had seen all this countless times before at hobbit parties throughout the years. At one moment, he caught sight of bright blonde hair and smiled to himself, certain that Torda's prediction about Siri and her suitor had been correct.  
  
"Let's move on," Thorin said, hot against his ear.  
  
Bilbo nodded and followed alongside him back through the crowds towards the refreshments. The food all seemed much easier to work out with Thorin beside him to give recommendations on what went with what. Eventually, armed with food and ale, they headed towards their more secluded table from the night before and sat down opposite each other. The food was so delicious that it was several moments before either of them spoke, but the silence was companionable and Bilbo's mind was busy racing through possible ways he could get hold of some of these recipes. If Bofur's brother had been responsible for this, no wonder his cooking was as popular as Bilbo had overheard!  
  
Thorin was the first to speak. "Tell me about your day. I thought perhaps to see you out around the Shire, but you were not there. Did you spend the time at home?"  
  
_Was he looking for me?_ Bilbo felt flustered by the possibility and cleared his throat, trying not to let it show. "Er, yes, that's right. The usual things, you know. Cooking, cleaning..." Well, he had forced himself to eat something, and he had made a cursory attempt at tidying up the mess left by his last transformation, although he strongly wished that he had bothered to do it before Gandalf had walked in with his raised eyebrows. "Busy, you know!" He took a swig of his ale, hoping that Thorin would change the subject. Part of him felt flattered that he would ask after his day, but the rest of him was frantically trying to strike the right balance between vague and giving himself away.  
  
“You could still learn a craft.” Thorin said lowly.  
  
“At my age?” Bilbo waved his hands as though it would bat the idea away before it could settle. Of course he had never told Thorin how old he was, but surely he could see he was beyond the age of an apprentice!  
  
“It is... unheard of, to be honest, but it would not be impossible. These things are your birth right as a dwarf.”  Not quite meeting Bilbo’s eye, he added, “I could teach you myself, or I could ask someone to help you, depending on what you would like to pursue.”  
  
For a moment Bilbo tried to picture himself carving stone or crafting jewellery or forging swords, only to fail completely. The kindness was not lost on him, but this was different to a few words of Khuzdul; it was, frankly, impossible. He shook his head, offering a small smile. “Thank you, Thorin. But really, there is no need. I am happy as I am, with my books, and my garden...”  
  
Thorin sighed, disappointment etched into every feature as he reached for his tankard, but instead of pushing further he replied instead, “You said yesterday that you grow things. This provides for you?”  
  
“Of course!” Bilbo frowned. “You can’t eat stone or metal, after all! And I’ll have you know that my tomatoes are the best in the area, thank you very much.”  
  
Almost despite himself, a smile tugged at the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “My apologies. What else do you grow?”  
  
So Bilbo started to tell him. He tried not to get too technical with his terms, but found himself lapsing into his storytelling voice as he described the rustling of the potato vines in the breeze, the way the tops of the carrots would burst through the earth in neat rows, the sweet scent of the roses and daisies that crowded close to the house. He felt himself becoming more animated as he shared the anticipation of seeing things grow, and the feeling of a job well done  
  
“Perhaps it is not so different.” Thorin said, slow and thoughtful. “A dwarf’s craft is everything. It means independence; the ability to provide for yourself and your kin, to survive through hard times. And it seems that that is what you have. Even though—”  
  
“No,” Bilbo said firmly. “Please don’t feel sorry for me Thorin. Yes, perhaps dwarves don’t grow things, but I am happy. Really.” Wondering how to change the subject, he was struck suddenly by just how much they had done this evening. “What time is it?”  
  
“You mean _kulhu adrân_ , surely.” Thorin said. When Bilbo couldn’t quite resist an eye roll, he smirked and glanced over his shoulder towards the crowds. “It must be nearly half eleven—I can see them bringing out the horn to announce it.”  
  
_So soon!_ Bilbo’s heart sank, but he forced himself to his feet nonetheless. “I... I should go.”  
  
“Your kin?” Thorin stood also, slow and almost heavy in his movements.  
  
“Yes.” It was a convenient excuse, and he felt grateful that it had been handed to him again. If Thorin knew that Bilbo lived alone, with nothing particularly pressing waiting for him at home, he would want to know the reason for him being so insistent to return home, and the truth just wasn’t an option.  
  
“I could go with you.” Thorin was saying. “Ensure that you get back safely.”  
  
“No, that’s... thank you, but that’s not necessary.”  
  
“You will return tomorrow, though?”  
  
“Yes, of course.” The words had left his mouth before he could consider them.  
  
Thorin smiled, though it did not fully reach his eyes, and then he leant in. Bilbo froze as Thorin’s face came close to his, only for confusion to flood through him when Thorin simply brought their foreheads together, hands clasping the back of his neck.  
  
“Er, Thorin—”  
  
“This is how we say goodbye to friends and family.” Thorin explained. “Zann galikh, ghivashel.”  
  
Uncertain of what to do and feeling as ridiculously nervous as a tween at their first spring dance, Bilbo reached up and folded his own hands over the backs of Thorin’s. He was struck again by how well they seemed to fit. His fingers brushed the insides of Thorin’s wrists where he sleeves had fallen back; they were softer than the rest of his hands and Bilbo was sure he could feel the pulse there, fluttering rapidly just under the skin.  
  
Slowly, carefully, he repeated “Zann galikh—”  
  
“That is enough.” Thorin interrupted. All of a sudden he wasn’t quite meeting Bilbo’s eye. “I should not have... zann galikh, Bilbor. Return safely tomorrow. I will wait for you.” And with that he was straightening up, pulling away, nudging Bilbo away from him. “Go.”  
  
“Right! Right, er, well... until tomorrow, then.”  
  
As with the first night, he didn’t dare look back as he hurried along the path and back towards Bag End, keeping his head down the whole way and trying to ignore his thumping heart. In fact he was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely even noticed as the transformation began again, and only just wrenched his boots off in time before his feet expanded again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the delay! Unfortunately more than a few issues have recently cropped up irl that have made it pretty difficult to get time to write and edit. Whilst things aren't fully resolved at the moment, I'm hoping that there won't be such a long delay in future- the next two chapters are pretty much ready to go.
> 
> Thanks again for all the feedback, and for sticking with me on this! We will get to the end eventually, I promise!
> 
> Major thanks too to [serenbach](http://archiveofourown.org/users/serenbach/pseuds/serenbach) for all the support and beta reading!
> 
> And also feel free to come find me over at [tumblr](http://synchronyshattered.tumblr.com/) for more fangirl flailing and feels. :)


	10. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin considered his options for a long moment. A large part of him wanted to deny that anything was the matter and keep Dís in the dark, mostly because he knew how much it would irritate her. But greater than that and growing ever stronger was his concern for Bilbor and, perhaps, help would be a good thing.
> 
> Slowly, cautiously, he eventually conceded, "There... there is a dwarf."
> 
> “Ah.” Dís said, looking more than a little triumphant. “I thought there might be.”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “Nothing.” The loaded tone of her voice suggested otherwise, but she waved a hand and moved the subject on. “So, that doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
> 
> “It’s not.” Of course it wasn’t; how could it ever be? "But it's not that simple."

Thorin passed a restless night, and when the next day dawned he could not settle. Everything inside him was in turmoil, and all because of Bilbor.  
  
His mind insisted on replaying snippets of the evening before again and again, well and truly thwarting any attempt he made to concentrate on his work. There was only so much he could delegate to Balin and Dwalin without them getting suspicious, and Mahal knew he needed to ensure everything was prepared to ease their journey ahead, especially with winter so close by, but every time he tried to focus, all he could think of was Bilbor so close beside him in the gloom of the forest, stumbling over words that should have been familiar to him since he was born.  
  
His mind raged and his heart hurt to think of the way Bilbor had frowned in frustration when a particular sound caught in his throat, or the way he had smiled with so much delight when he had been able to get something right. And the way he had tried to dissuade Thorin, pleading that Khuzdul was a matter only for dwarves, well...  
  
Just yesterday— could it really have only been such a short time ago?— Thorin had set out in the morning to wander through the Shire, hoping to encounter Bilbor again before the second ball. The strange dwarf had seemed so uncertain, so hesitant about whether he would be able to appear again, and Thorin hadn't wanted to take the chance of never seeing him again. But as much as he wandered, and as many fearful glances as he had ignored from the hobbits, and as many of his own people he had spoken to in the marketplace, feigning that he was just interested to see how everything was going, he had found neither hide nor hair of Bilbor.  
  
He had thought about asking some of the hobbits, but quickly decided against it: the way they avoided his gaze and scurried out of his way may not have been as spiteful as the rejection of Men, but it was rejection nonetheless and he doubted very much that he would be able to get any sense out of them. Besides, if Bilbor’s kin heard that someone was looking for him, if they found out he had gone to the ball, there was always the possibility it might cause more trouble for him, and Thorin might never lay eyes on him again.  
  
In the end, he had given up and headed back to the camp to get on with his work, telling himself firmly that there was nothing he could do except wait and see if Bilbor did turn up.  
  
The relief when he had appeared on that path— and the warmth that Thorin had felt flooding through his veins— had been too immense to describe. He realised in that moment just how concerned he had been for him. If a family could keep Khuzdul and craft from their child, there was no telling what else they may do. The thought was like a cold shock. Bilbor was such a strange contradiction, quick with his words and jokes one moment, and so apologetic and fearful the next, that his reticence surely could not have been a natural side of his character. There must have been a cause for it.  
  
But there were other things that came to mind as well, wonderful even though they were tinged with the sadness and anger he felt for Bilbor. The way that Bilbor’s eyes lit up whenever he smiled, all the brighter for its unexpectedness. The courage that it must have taken him to come to not one ball but two, propelling him on despite his obvious unease in such a large gathering. The way he had held Thorin almost spellbound as he talked about his garden, and how the passion in his voice had made Thorin wonder if maybe there was something to be said for a peaceful life in the Shire after all.  
  
And of course the warmth of him pressed against Thorin’s side as they weaved their way through the crowds, and the soft brush of his hair against Thorin’s face as he had pressed their foreheads together when parting, and the word that had come unbidden to Thorin’s lips when he held him close, and—  
  
_Oh._  
  
And it was then that he really knew. Dwarves only loved once, after all. For some that meant long years of friendship, slowly and carefully built block by block, until the whole structure was revealed to be something other than what was first expected. For others, love came more like a sudden hammer blow cracking through a rock face and revealing a trove of sparkling gems beneath it.  
  
If anyone had ever dared to ask Thorin— which they hadn't— he would have considered himself to fall firmly within the first category, if either. It was a king's job to be careful and shrewd, after all, and to plan for all eventualities.  
  
So to find himself to actually be within the second category was more than a shock to him. Some distant part of his mind thought that it was a surprise he couldn't hear Frerin's laughter at him even from here, ringing through from Mahal's distant halls.  
  
By the time Dís found him, Thorin was sitting hunched over his makeshift desk, head in his hands. Upon hearing her enter the tent, he looked up blearily and groaned. "What do you want?"  
  
"Good afternoon to you too, brother." she said curtly, before passing him a plate of bread and cheese. "I wanted to see if you wanted to have something to eat, seeing as you were missing at breakfast this morning."  
  
Thorin realised then that, despite everything, he really was hungry. Perhaps some food would help him think clearer. He took the plate and began tearing into the bread. "Wanted to get an early start." he said with his mouth full, before swallowing and adding almost sheepishly, "Thank you."  
  
Dís nodded, and then took the seat next to Thorin, not waiting to be invited. "You look a mess. Did you even comb your hair this morning?"  
  
He hadn't, but the assessment still made him scowl. "Lots to do." He wondered if concentrating on the food would encourage Dís to leave quicker, but knew deep down that that was a false hope. Best to wait it out, really.  
  
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Thorin eating, before Dís sighed suddenly and flopped back in her chair. "I swear, brother, you are almost more trouble than my boys. What is it? What is wrong?" Thorin opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off, pointing a finger at his face. "And don't you give me all that 'it's nothing' rubbish, I know better than that. You've been acting strangely since yesterday. First I hear that you are happy—”  
  
"I fail to see how that can be classed as 'strange'." Thorin muttered, feeling vaguely insulted despite himself.  
  
Dís raised an eyebrow. " _Whistling_ , Thorin? Really?" He found he had no answer to that, so she continued, "And here you are today, all moping and melancholy all of a sudden. So what is it, Thorin?" She frowned. "Did something happen at the ball?"  
  
Thorin considered his options for a long moment. A large part of him wanted to deny that anything was the matter and keep Dís in the dark, mostly because he knew how much it would irritate her. But greater than that and growing ever stronger was his concern for Bilbor and, perhaps, help would be a good thing.  
  
Slowly, cautiously, he eventually conceded, "There... there is a dwarf."  
  
“Ah.” Dís said, looking more than a little triumphant. “I thought there might be.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing.” The loaded tone of her voice suggested otherwise, but she waved a hand and moved the subject on. “So, that doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”  
  
“It’s not.” Of course it wasn’t; how could it ever be? "But it's not that simple."

At Dís's questioning look, he proceeded to tell her everything: how he had run after Bilbor that first evening, drawn perhaps by the sight of someone looking so frantic at an occasion that was meant to be a happy one. How he had been struck by this newcomer's anxious behaviour, and how he hadn't seemed to have known about the traditions and customs that should have been his own. How it had been up to Thorin to teach a fully grown dwarf his first faltering words of Khuzdul. How Bilbor had rushed off before midnight for two nights running, adamant that his kin— the same kin that had denied him so much!— were expecting him back, and how Thorin had not been able to find him, no matter how long he had searched high and low during the day.  
  
By the time his voice trailed off, Dís's face was as rigid as marble. She considered his words for a long moment and then asked "What are you going to do?"  
  
"Ask him to come with us." The answer seemed so easy as it left Thorin's mouth that he felt a jolt of surprise. How had the words not just crystallised in his mind earlier? Of course he was going to ask Bilbor to come on the road to Belegost. To come home with him. Thorin swallowed hard. "I... I cannot leave him here, Dís. I _will_ not. His kin do not treat him as they should, and he should be amongst those who will. He must come with us."  
  
Dís nodded. “Of course he must. Nobody would think otherwise. Do you want me to come with you tonight, to help?”  
  
Thorin shook his head. "No. He is... easily startled. I would not want him to feel overwhelmed. He might find it discouraging."  
  
Dís pursed her lips, not looking very happy at Thorin’s refusal but clearly understanding his reasons all the same. "Very well. But remember that I will be there, and if there is any reason you need me, you call for me, understand? Fíli and Kíli, too."  
  
“Do not tell them.” Thorin said. “I do not want to scare Bilbor off, and they—"  
  
“Are a bit full on, yes, I know.” Dis interrupted. “I did bear them, after all! But they mean well, and they would want to see you happy.”  
  
He knew this, just as he knew his nephews would have been outraged at the idea of Bilbor's isolation and mistreatment. They would surely take to Bilbor straight away, over protective despite their teasing and eager to please. The thought warmed his heart, even as it raged against the injustice of everything Bilbor had faced.  
  
"You are doing the right thing, Thorin.” Dís said seriously. “It is a difficult situation, and to act with such delicacy and sensitivity... well, I barely recognised you for a moment.” As he frowned, she smiled at him and rose to her feet. “I am happy for you, Thorin. The lads will be too, once they know.”  
  
So, he really was that obvious then.  
  
Not knowing how to respond, he made a sound that he hoped came across as non-committal and turned back to his work. Dís said no more as she left, but Thorin was _sure_ he heard her laughing enough for both herself and Frerin as she walked away from his tent.  
  
Clearing his throat, embarrassed, he shuffled the papers and maps in front of him and wondered how long it was until the ball. It couldn’t come soon enough, truth be told, and yet... he still had to work out what to _say_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Thorin has finally caught up with the rest for us! As for Bilbo...
> 
> Thanks as always to [serenbach](http://archiveofourown.org/users/serenbach/pseuds/serenbach) for the beta reading. :)
> 
> Come join me on [tumblr](http://synchronyshattered.tumblr.com/) for more fandom ramblings!


	11. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's not fair!_ his mind raged. _All this time waiting for dwarves, and then they have to go and leave!_
> 
> _This was always how it was going to be!_ the Baggins voice snapped back almost immediately. _There was always going to be an end to it! There's no use in being... in being, well, hysterical about the whole thing! If anything, it's_ Thorin _who should be upset. And certainly would be, if he knew he'd been tricked!_
> 
>  
> 
> _It wasn't a trick! Not really. I never—_

Bilbo awoke once more to sunlight, birdsong, and the familiar sight of his same old bedroom ceiling.  
  
A thought came to him before anything else, before any realisation, before any words. He clamped a hand over his mouth even before the room had properly come into focus.  
  
No. _No._ He would not let himself even _think_ it. It was all well and good for the Took side of him to take charge once twilight came, but here in the reality of morning, the Baggins side was firmly taking root again.  
  
He tightened his grip over his mouth and dared not think.  
  
\-----  
  
He had half expected to find Gandalf right where he had left him the night before, loading his pipe by the fire and looking rather too pleased with himself, but the smial had been empty when he had got back. There had been nothing to keep him company except his thoughts until he had collapsed into bed, exhausted by the evening and his run and his transformation back into hobbit form.  
  
He supposed he should have been relieved that there had been no furniture overturned this time, but goodness, the _hair_. It seemed to have gotten everywhere, leading in a trail from his front door (he had only just arrived in time, this time around; he supposed that was lucky, at least) into the middle of the hallway where he had fallen once the transformation had truly taken hold of his bones. Then, at one point or another, it had decided to blow everywhere: he kept finding odd strands lingering in the kitchen, or scattered in the living room.  
  
_Perhaps there’s a draught. I should check,_ he thought automatically, with no real intention of doing so. What did it really matter to him, with his mind so far away?  
  
Holman and young Hamfast came by at their usual time, Holman full of his familiar cheerful greetings and plans for the garden. Bilbo hovered on his doorstep, wondering if some fresh air and hard work might take his mind of things. Then, realising it would be hopeless, he stammered some excuses about being ever so busy and shut himself away in the study, head in his hands and all of his scattered papers lying untouched in front of him.  
  
\-----  
  
When he admitted to himself that, once again, this would be a lost day where nothing would get done, he decided to head out towards the market place. It would give him the chance to restock his larder, he told himself firmly, and also a chance to keep an eye out for Gandalf, who must surely be somewhere roundabout.  
  
Hamfast hurried up to him as he went to leave, biting his lip. The poor lad was only a few months into his apprenticeship and terrified of doing something wrong, no matter how reassuring Bilbo tried to be.  
  
“Er, Mister Baggins—”  
  
"Yes? What is it?" Bilbo tried to sound friendly and approachable, just as he had been since Hamfast first showed up, and not let his agitation show. He thought he did reasonably well, all things considered.  
  
"Er, well... that is, er..." Hamfast hesitated, then suddenly thrust out his hand towards Bilbo. "I found this, Mister Baggins, a whole lot of it, in amongst the petunias by the door. What should I do with it?"  
  
Bilbo blinked at Hamfast's hand, realising that what he was holding out was a tuft of long brown hair. His own long brown hair, shed at some point last night before he managed to get himself inside.  
  
For a long moment he stared blankly; then, realising the young hobbit was anxiously waiting on an answer, forced a smile.  
  
"Oh! Well, that, er... must have been the Goodchilds' dog. Gets all over the place, dreadful for shedding. No matter, just clear it up if you can, there's a good lad." He clapped Hamfast on the shoulder and headed on, hoping that he hadn't been wrong about the Goodchilds having a dog.  
  
Down by the river, the market was bustling as usual, but after two nights surrounded by celebrating dwarves, it felt... odd. Bilbo found himself stopping frequently, shifting from foot to foot and looking around in a way he was sure must have seemed almost wild. He knew that he had often experienced similar things after returning from the towns of Men and the settlements of Elves, but this was different still.  
  
Everything felt _wrong_ , somehow, in a way that it never had before.  
  
"You OK there?"  
  
Bilbo spun around to find that one of the stall owners was addressing him, as he had come to a standstill beside their wares and hadn't moved in goodness knows how long. Then Bilbo recognised the dark braids and distinctive hat.  
  
"Er..."  
  
"You lookin' for anything in particular?" Bofur offered him a smile, as wide as Bilbo remembered from the balls, but now more polite than anything else. There was something just too calm about him. "We're sellin' toys today, best you'll find in Middle Earth!" The dwarf next to him, head bowed as he whittled away at something, didn't even look up.  
  
_He doesn't recognise me..._ Bilbo knew he should feel relieved, but instead all there was was a pang of disappointment go through him. He stepped closer without thinking, glad to be able to drop his gaze from Bofur's and look across the table of merchandise. It didn't seem to be an empty boast, either: the models and figures lined up in front of him were some of the most intricate that Bilbo had ever seen, mixed up with spinning tops and building blocks and wagons with wheels that really moved. He considered it all in one sweeping glance and then found himself saying, "Yes, really excellent— I’ll take the lot."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
Bilbo looked up to find Bofur regarding him now in wide eyed wariness, as though he suspected it might all be a joke. The dwarf beside him had also snapped out of his trance, peering up wildly through a tangle of black and white hair.  
  
Even Bilbo wasn't sure what he was thinking, except for the fact he knew how kind Bofur had been when he had felt lost, and he knew that there was a large family to feed. There was no good Bofur’s brother being a cook if there was no food to go in the pot. He forced a smile that he hoped looked natural.  
  
"Yes, all of them, please. Er, if that's OK, of course? Lots of young cousins, you see, and with my birthday coming up they'll all be expecting something exciting." Then, reality suddenly striking him, he said, "Oh! But, er... I suppose I don't have the money with me now. I, well, I didn't really plan for this." He fumbled for his coin pouch. "Here, let me pay for as many as I can, and I'll give you my address so that I can order the rest from you, will that be alright?"  
  
It turned out that it was more than alright with Bofur, and the smile he gave Bilbo as he left, laden down with almost more toys than he could carry, was almost the same as the one he'd given him when they first met. And really, Bilbo told himself, that was as much as he could truly hope for, wasn't it?  
  
\-----  
  
It was only when he returned that he allowed himself to sink into one of his living room armchairs and think.  
  
This was to be it: the final evening. After this, he would be a hobbit forever more— _just as it should be_ , the Baggins voice sniped— and that would be that. The dwarves would leave and he wouldn’t see them again.  
  
He wouldn’t see Thorin again.  
  
A horrible choking sob tore its way out of his throat from where he had been forcing it down all day. He clapped his hand over his mouth, but it was too late. Tears were already springing to his eyes.  
  
_It's not fair!_ his mind raged. _All this time waiting for dwarves, and then they have to go and leave!_  
  
_This was always how it was going to be!_ the Baggins voice snapped back almost immediately. _There was always going to be an end to it! There's no use in being... in being, well,_ hysterical _about the whole thing! If anything, it's_ Thorin _who should be upset. And certainly would be, if he knew he'd been tricked!_  
  
_It wasn't a trick! Not really. I never—_  
  
But he faltered even in trying to explain it to himself, too upset, too overwhelmed by the sheer hopelessness of it all. This was the final night he would see Thorin. Even if Thorin found out the truth, there was no way he would ever forgive him; he might not even believe him.  
  
_So the best thing I can do is go tonight and explain to him that this is it, this is the last time,_ he thought, rubbing his arms in a gesture that brought him less comfort than he’d hoped. _It’ll give him some closure on the matter and hopefully he won’t be too angry at how abrupt it all seems._  
  
It really did seem like the best option open to him from the limited range he had, but knowing this didn’t stop him from sitting there for a long while afterwards, remembering the feeling of Thorin’s hot breath against his ear and wondering if he would find someone else to make him laugh so unexpectedly.  
  
By the time Gandalf arrived several hours later, Bilbo was so frantic that he left it to Gandalf to shut the door behind him.  
  
“It’s about time you showed up!” he called irritably over his shoulder as he stomped back to his bedroom.  
  
“And a good day to you too.” Gandalf replied dryly. Bilbo could hear the clunk of his staff on the ground as he followed him down the hallway.  
  
“Oh yes, a very good day.” Bilbo huffed, going back to rifling through his wardrobes. Every now and then he would pause to consider an item, only to throw it onto the ever growing pile of discarded items on his bed. “A very fine not-at-all-wasted day it’s been, I must say.” He paused for a moment to shoot a glare back at Gandalf. “Go on then. Get on with it.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Do your... you know.” Bilbo made a strange, wriggling gesture that might possibly have indicated a spell. “Magic thing, you know.” When Gandalf neither moved nor spoke, he heaved an irritable sigh. “Well, that’s why you’re here isn’t it?”  
  
“It was,” Gandalf agreed. “But right now I think perhaps we should have a little talk. Bilbo, whatever’s the matter?”  
  
“The matter is that I can’t find anything in this blasted wardrobe! I’ve been wearing the same outfit for two nights running! He’ll think I don’t have anything else to wear!”  
  
“Bilbo, do you really think that that matters to them? The dwarves of Ered Luin have so little that they will not have thought twice about seeing the same jacket or boots. He will not have thought badly of you for the way you dress.”  
  
“It matters to me.” Bilbo said quietly, thinking of the gleam of metal and gems in lantern light. “They may not have much, but they have all put in so much effort, and...” Then suddenly his mind caught up with him and he blinked. “Wait. Did you… did you say ‘he’?”  
  
Gandalf smiled at him.  
  
“You did, didn’t you?”  
  
He even had the slightest of twinkles in his eye. Dratted wizard!  
  
Bilbo felt his grip tighten on the blue jacket in his hands. He tossed it to one side, cleared his throat, flexed his hands and, when he realised he still didn’t know what to say, he turned back to the wardrobe and began sorting through it with a renewed vigour.  
  
From behind him, Gandalf said, “If you must know, I spoke with his sister about the arrangements for tonight. She happened to mention that her brother had been acting strangely happy for the last few days.”  
  
Bilbo said nothing, just continued rummaging through the wardrobe.  
  
“I thought it likely that he had perhaps... found a new hope.”  
  
He made a sound of agreement that bordered very much on a high, hysterical laugh.  
  
“Bilbo.”  
  
There was something in the way that Gandalf said his name that made Bilbo still instantly. Slowly, he withdrew his grasp from what few jackets remained in the wardrobe he was currently searching and released a deep, shuddering breath that he hadn’t even realised he was holding. When he turned to Gandalf, he found the wizard looking at him with something that seemed awfully like sympathy.  
  
“Leave the outfits. Come on.” Bilbo did as asked, stepping towards where Gandalf still stood by the door. “I’ll make you a new one; one fit for being seen with any king, whether he cares about your appearance or not.”  
  
Perhaps it was a sign of how much Bilbo wanted reassurance that his only thought was, _well, it’ll certainly be faster and cheaper than the tailor._  
  
Gandalf’s staff came down on the flagstones.  
  
And when Bilbo came back to himself— gasping, choking, staggering as always— he realised that Gandalf had been true to his word. Instead of his worn old house clothes, he was wearing dark britches with a robe of deep forest green, the same as his own familiar front door. Golden thread traced out an intricate pattern of acorns around the end of each wide sleeve, matching the ornate buckle of his new thick leather belt. But it was the shirt that really caught his attention, made from thousands upon thousands of tiny silver-coloured rings woven tightly together and gleaming in the light.  
  
It was truly the most magnificent outfit he’d ever seen, let alone worn.  
  
Gandalf seemed to sense that, if his pleased expression was anything to go by.  
  
“It’s... it’s wonderful.” Bilbo said softly. “Thank you, Gandalf.” He took a deep breath to steel himself. “So, until midnight then?”  
  
Gandalf nodded. “I am sorry that I cannot give you more time. But a few hours at a time for a few days running... it’s as much as I can manage, for now.”  
  
“No, it’s... it’s fine.” It would have to be. A few more hours would have to be enough. It was more than he should have had, and more than he probably deserved. He coughed and managed a smile. “So, I’d best find these boots then. I’ve a ball to go to.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a delay here again, sorry! This chapter just about brings us up to everything that had been more or less pre-written, except for edits. This means there may be a little bit longer between updates from now on, though I'll try to keep it as regular as I can. 
> 
> The next chapter is now (very recently) finished- edits aren't done yet, but to give you an indication, it's over 6k- much longer than I expected! So it might make an appearance as two chapters instead. 
> 
> Thanks again for the feedback and kudos! :) And to [serenbach](http://archiveofourown.org/users/serenbach/pseuds/serenbach) for beta reading and all her help!
> 
> Come find me over at [tumblr](http://synchronyshattered.tumblr.com/) as well!


	12. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Always present was the knowledge that with every minute that passed, he was another minute closer to having to say goodbye. He knew he ought to be steering the conversation towards it, trying to make it more gradual and hopefully easier for the both of them, but the moment was never quite right: Thorin was eager to explain something to him, or Bilbo thought of new questions he knew he would regret not asking later on, or it was just too crowded for them to have the privacy they really needed for such a conversation. _In a little while,_ he kept telling himself, _just a little longer, and then I’ll do it._

The paths to the clearing were a lot more crowded that evening than the previous two. Before, Bilbo had found himself making his way alone in the gathering dark, but now he was surrounded by laughing and chattering groups of friends and relatives, calling and waving and shouting to one another. He had hoped for a moment or two at least to think over the plan he knew he should have— but didn’t— for tonight, to consider what he was going to say and how he could say it, but it was impossible when he was lost in the midst of such noise and excitement. All he could do was smile and nod to those who greeted him and try to brush off the leaves and twigs that still clung to him after he had been forced to crash through a hedgerow in a rather undignified manner to avoid the Miller heading up Bagshot Row not long after he’d left his front door.  
  
It became even more impossible to consider anything when he reached the edges of the clearing and heard his name being called.  
  
“Bilbor!” Thorin was hurrying towards him through the dispersing dwarves, smile growing as he did so. It was amazing how it transformed him so completely, the lines of care and worry still etched deep around his eyes but softer now. “You are earlier than expected! My apologies, I was with my sister—”  
  
“No, don’t be silly, nothing to be sorry for.” Bilbo smiled back, finding somehow that it was easier than he’d expected. “I _am_ earlier than before, it’s true. I just... didn’t want to miss a moment.” Then, barely knowing what was coming over him, he bowed and added, “Sakami astû galikh.”  
  
“ _Sakhmi_.” Thorin corrected with a laugh. “Besides, there’s no need to be formal.” Before Bilbo knew what was happening, Thorin was leaning down and pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s. “Idmi, idùzhibuh.”  
  
Perhaps it was the gentleness of the gesture, or the way he lowered his voice just for Bilbo to hear, or even the fleeting half-glance he cast around beforehand to check that nobody was watching them. Whatever it was, something clicked in Bilbo’s mind in that instant, and all of a sudden everything made sense.  
  
_Oh._  
  
It’s... it’s the same for him.  
  
Suddenly, in that moment, everything seemed so clear that it seemed unbelievable he hadn’t seen it before, even if he still didn’t want to put it into words. His heart was racing as Thorin pulled away and— much to his dismay— he was certain that the tips of his ears had turned red, for all that they weren’t really _his_ and so had absolutely no business at all keeping up _that_ particularly irritating habit, thank you very much.  
  
_But what does it matter? There’s nothing I can do about it, especially not considering I’m... oh, blast._  
  
Clearing his throat, hoping against hope to keep his voice steady, he said, “I don’t think we covered that word last night. Something for tonight’s lesson, is it?”  
  
He could have kicked himself as soon as he’d said it. The _last_ thing he should be doing was learning more of a language he had no rights to!  
  
“Perhaps.” Thorin looked a little uneasy all of a sudden— _what on earth does that word mean?_ — but it only lasted for a moment before flitting away. “Actually, Bilbor, I thought we would skip a lesson for tonight.”  
  
“Oh.” This was undoubtedly the best response he could have received, all things considered, but Bilbo couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the thought of not returning to that secluded spot in the woods, pressed close against Thorin and focusing only on the sound of his voice and the shape of his mouth, and—  
  
He coughed again, feeling his ears heat up once more, and looked away. _Stupid, stupid, stupid..._  
  
Despite his best efforts, some measure of his disappointment must have shown in his face, because Thorin quickly added, “Do not worry. There will be enough time ahead for lessons.”  
  
_There won’t be,_ Bilbo thought, but said aloud only, “Oh, yes. Is it... I mean, do you... need to be... elsewhere?” As... fond... as Thorin may be of him, he was a king, after all, and Bilbo had seen just the night before how in demand his company had been; no doubt he had other duties he should be attending to.  
  
But Thorin was shaking his head. “No, that’s not it at all. Just...” The way he paused, looking frustrated with himself, made Bilbo wonder if maybe he was as unused to such situations as Bilbo was. “I would like to show you everything here. I would like for you to experience a full night at a dwarven ball. To have fun with your people and enjoy yourself. It is not something I think you are used to.”  
  
His voice was low and grave as he said it. Bilbo could feel the sadness behind his words and his own guilt welling up in him. Perhaps the party invitations had been less forthcoming in recent years than they used to be, and perhaps he spent far longer in the company of his books than he did other hobbits, but he wouldn’t have said he was _unhappy_. Not exactly.  
  
“I manage quite well,” he said, reaching out to lay his hand on Thorin’s arm without even thinking.  “But, if you’ve decided to be my guide for tonight, I’d be happy to accept.” _All I need to do is find a quiet moment to explain,_ he thought, _and of course another quiet moment or two beforehand to decide just_ what _I’m going to explain, seeing as the truth is out of the question! Perhaps I can bring up the rest of their journey, maybe that will work..._  
  
“Then I would be honoured.” He gave Bilbo’s hand a squeeze before removing it from his arm. “Come then, let’s start with a drink. The queues for the ale won’t be too long yet.”  
  
“Well, we wouldn’t want to miss out, would we?” Bilbo smiled. “Lead on, then.”  
  
The wave of noise and movement as they entered the clearing was nowhere near as intimidating as it had been that first night, Bilbo realised as he followed close at Thorin’s side; if anything it felt as comforting as stepping into a warm bath. Perhaps Thorin’s presence had a great deal to do with taking any worry out of the occasion— after all, beside a king, he was free to stand back and observe more or less— but he realised with a sudden pang of sorrow that he was truly going to miss all of the dwarves. He found his eyes darting from face to face, trying to catch any passing detail he could, wondering what stories they might have been able to tell him had he only had more time amongst them. Three nights seemed so pitifully short a time. If only there was a way he could stay a while longer...  
  
He was aware from the corner of his eye that Thorin kept glancing back at him but he had assumed it was just to ensure that Bilbo was still walking with him. When they paused by the barrels, and Bilbo was able to concentrate on anything apart from not stumbling into anyone, he realised that it wasn’t so much himself that Thorin kept looking at, but most definitely his chest.  
  
_Drat._ There went his blasted ears again, flaming up as though he’d been out in the sun all day.  
  
“Er, is... is everything all right?”  
  
Thorin blinked, snapping out of his apparent trance as quickly as if someone had dumped cold water over him, and looked away hurriedly. “Yes, of course. What do you mean?” Bilbo could have sworn that his voice was gruffer than usual.  
  
It was so tempting just to abandon the topic, but he persevered, knowing that the issue would return to bother him later if he didn’t find out. “It’s just, er, you... keep looking at me. I thought maybe there might be something... wrong?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question, but the longer the moment dragged on, the less certain he was what was happening. As flattering (and, yes, apparently his neck wanted to match his ears now, _damn it!_ ) as Thorin’s attentions may have been, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly self-conscious in this body that wasn’t his.  
  
“It’s nothing.” Thorin’s reply was curt and final, but Bilbo barely had time to open his mouth to reply before he was adding, sounding— Bilbo suddenly realised— almost embarrassed, “It’s just... well, you...”  
  
_Perhaps I don’t look right?_ Bilbo’s mind was racing ahead of him. _I’ve not been eating right the past few days, perhaps he thinks I look ill? Maybe I’ve grown thin and not realised. Or am I not wearing this outfit right? I certainly hope there’s no twigs still in my beard— that blasted hedgerow—_  
  
“You look very fine tonight.” The words came out in a rush that his ears very nearly missed.  
  
Bilbo’s mind ground to such an abrupt halt that he struggled for a moment to find his tongue. “Oh, er, well... thank you very much.” Relief flooded over him, along with a wave of warm happiness that, unfortunately, seemed to do absolutely nothing for his current blushing.  
  
Thorin inclined his head before gesturing towards him, continuing, “That shirt. Where did you get it?”  
  
For a moment, he was confused. As keen as hobbits were to gossip about clothes— with, admittedly, himself being firmly amongst them in this if nothing else— and as much as he had worried over looking his best in front of Thorin tonight, he realised now that the dwarf had never truly struck him as the type to think overly much about the specifics of what someone was wearing. Perhaps he really _had_ been wrong to assume that Thorin would have thought twice about him wearing the same outfit for a third night running. But there was an oddly particular edge to the question that made him hesitate, unsure.  
  
“Oh, this old thing?”  he asked, deciding quickly that when in doubt, it was best to fall back onto Shire niceties and modesty. “I just found it in a trunk at home.”  
  
His breath caught in his throat as Thorin leant towards him. For a moment his mind went entirely blank, unable to even wonder what was about to happen, but then Thorin spoke, his voice having dropped to a murmur just for his ears. “It appears to be mithril.”  
  
Bilbo blinked. Even if he’d never met dwarves before this week, he’d heard of mithril before: beautiful, priceless, and incredibly rare. It was something that Men only knew about from stories, and that Elves mentioned as vague tales from the long distant past. And here he was, apparently wearing a whole shirt of it out and about with absolutely no idea!  
  
Gandalf’s words about his new outfit came back to him all of a sudden: “ _one fit for being seen with any king”_.  
  
Cursed, sneaky, dratted _wizard_!  
  
“Oh, does it?” Bilbo coughed. His throat felt over so dry. Desperately, he glanced away and caught sight of some dwarves moving away from the ale. “Look, there’s an opening at the barrels! Let’s get in quick before anyone else does.”  
  
\-----  
  
Thorin made good on his word that evening. Within moments Bilbo could see that the dwarves had really put every effort into making this last night as spectacular as possible despite being on the road, and everyone certainly seemed to be in the mood to make the most of the evening— he was sure he hadn't seen a single face all evening that wasn't smiling.  
  
The cooks had really outdone themselves for the final night: everything on the heavily laden tables looked, smelled, and tasted delicious, from the enormous stews to the intricate pies to every last elaborate dessert. Bilbo loaded his plate high time and again, pleased to find that his usual healthy appetite had apparently got used to his transformations by now, even if Thorin had started to looked mildly surprised at how much he managed to eat. It was a shame there was no chance to meet Bofur's brother Bombur— he would have loved to have picked up some of the recipes, even if it was only going to be something to make for himself on another quiet evening at home.  
  
They squeezed onto the end of one of the long tables to eat, Thorin returning the greetings that were sent his way and Bilbo offering small smiles and nods, trying not to appear nervous. It was obvious that the dwarves were curious about him, not only as a newcomer but from being in the company of a king too. He tried his best to ignore the glances and whispers that came his way, wondering wryly if he ought to be glad of years of practice in the Shire. Luckily, nobody questioned him: he was positive that there would be rumours for weeks to come, but nobody dared come up to him with Thorin by his side. As much as it was a relief, he hoped that Thorin wouldn't be the subject of too much gossip after all this was over.  
  
Always present was the knowledge that with every minute that passed, he was another minute closer to having to say goodbye. He knew he ought to be steering the conversation towards it, trying to make it more gradual and hopefully easier for the both of them, but the moment was never quite right: Thorin was eager to explain something to him, or Bilbo thought of new questions he knew he would regret not asking later on, or it was just too crowded for them to have the privacy they really needed for such a conversation. _In a little while,_ he kept telling himself, _just a little longer, and then I’ll do it._  
  
As they wandered afterwards, he caught sight of Gandalf’s work along the edges of the clearing: blazing pinwheels of whirring blue and silver, rippling fountains of gold and green, dazzling him even when he closed his eyes. Bilbo thought they appeared to be some of the best he'd ever seen from Gandalf— fitting for royalty, no doubt— and certainly many of the dwarves seemed to agree, if those pausing as they passed by or clustering nearby to watch were anything to go by. He wondered for a moment whether any of them were reminded of the mines at Erebor, if any of them were thinking of the fantastic caverns lined with precious stones and sparkling veins of metal.  
  
He tugged on Thorin’s hand to get his attention and then pointed them out. “These are the fireworks you mentioned?”  
  
Thorin nodded. “Yes, but these are just to start. My sister said there will be more fireworks at midnight— a whole display.”  
  
“Isn’t that, er... wouldn’t that be dangerous? Here in the woods?”  
  
“Apparently the wizard assured her these ones will be perfectly safe. He said something about his fireworks being about the only thing that keeps him in the good graces of these hobbits, and that he didn’t think burning down their wood would end particularly well for him or for us.”  
  
Bilbo couldn't help but smile at that. Gandalf had certainly hit the nail on the head. “Well, no, that I can certainly believe.”  
  
Perhaps he would have commented further, but all of a sudden Thorin's hand was tightening around his and he was being tugged away. "Come on."  
  
It was then he realised just how close they had wandered to the dancers and musicians, and it all fell into place rather too quickly for the liking of his panicking mind.  
  
"What— oh no. No, no, no! I don't dance!" It was untrue, of course. Dancing was one of the main events at any Hobbit party, no matter the occasion, and even Mad Baggins could still get involved in the bigger group dances. In his younger days, before all of his adventuring, he'd even been quite popular at such events!  
  
"Neither do I." Thorin said, entirely straight faced as he swung Bilbo around by the hand right into the crowd. "So I suppose we will have to learn together."  
  
The first thing that struck Bilbo was just how lively dwarvish dancing was. The dancing he was used to certainly required a lot of energy and effort, but after years of practice it almost seemed like second nature to him. This was something entirely new, and for at least the first song he felt that most of his concentration seemed to go into trying to observe the steps and copy them and not trip the other dancers up, all at the same time.  
  
Thorin, it soon became apparent, had been lying. Although there were far better dancers than him in the crowd, within minutes he seemed to have remembered almost everything he had presumably learnt in the past. Luckily for Bilbo, he seemed eager to share his knowledge, muttering a quick direction in his ear when they came close, or nudging him the right way to make sure he followed the steps correctly, or at least moved with the crowd even when he couldn’t quite make out if he was meant to be doing _kick-kick-step_ or _kick-step-step_.  
  
Soon enough, he found himself anticipating when the directions were about to come, and found himself focusing less on the steps and more on the dancing itself. A voice in the back of Bilbo’s mind kept repeating _remember remember remember._ Everything he did, everything he saw, seemed to be set to that mantra. _Keep hold of this. Keep hold of these moments, these memories, don’t forget! Don’t forget anything!_  
  
But it was like trying to hold on to water, and the more he tried to concentrate, the harder it became. Sights and sounds tangled and blurred until he knew he wouldn’t have been able to clearly pick out where one had ended and another started.  
  
A few things he knew for sure would stick with him forever after, odd random impressions that caught his eye and mind. The whirl of lights above him as he spun, trying to keep up with the dance. The way his laughter shook him until his chest throbbed and his throat rasped. The weight of the boots dragging on his feet, and his feeling that the steps would have been much easier without them, although far more dangerous in such a large crowd of heavy feet.  
  
And Thorin, of course. Thorin, as he was on this night, would stay etched in his mind forever more, he was certain. The warm press of his hand against Bilbo’s. The smile growing more and more as Bilbo became more confident with the steps. The flash of silver beads in his dark hair. The way he pulled Bilbo close enough to him that his hot breath caught on Bilbo’s face and hair, and that Bilbo almost imagined he could feel Thorin’s heart beating against his own chest.  
  
Eventually though, the music came to an end; the musicians were swapping with another group, and the crowd were applauding and cheering. Bilbo felt all at once as though he'd danced for ten whole years and for just ten seconds as he stood there, Thorin's hand still tightly clasped in his own. Laughing, heaving for breath, he made no objections as Thorin led him out from the crowd of dancers and across the clearing.  
  
"Well," he eventually managed, "I don't suppose I've had exercise quite like that in years! Much more and I'd have worked up enough of an appetite to tackle anything that's left on those tables."  
  
“I would be impressed if you could, but not exactly surprised after tonight.” Thorin said. When Bilbo glanced up at him, he found Thorin smiling down at him. He came to a halt without meaning to and realised that he was smiling back at him.  
  
For just a moment he felt something on the tip of his tongue. It wasn’t the gentle goodbye he should be giving, of that he was sure, but exactly what it was he didn’t know. He just stood there, not breaking their gaze, not paying attention to anything else. The moment stretched on just a little longer than necessary before Thorin broke the silence.  
  
“Bilbor, I...”  
  
It was then that, right in the corner of his eye, Bilbo caught sight of enthusiastic waving just past Thorin’s shoulder. His eyes were automatically drawn over to the motion but he looked away almost as quickly as he’d glanced over, feeling himself firmly shaken back to reality by the sight of Bofur, surrounded once again by his nieces and nephews. From the brief flash of his face that Bilbo caught, he seemed to be in good spirits— probably, Bilbo thought for one vaguely hysterical second, eager to share the news of his good fortune in the marketplace that morning.  
  
_And_ , Bilbo realised suddenly, remembering his questioning look from the stage the night before, _he’ll probably want to find out all about what I’m suddenly doing in the company of a king, considering I was all alone when he met me the first night... or rather, when he met_ Durin _the first night!_ He swallowed hard. Even if Bofur had the tact not to mention his awful slip on the first night, there was no guaranteeing one of the little ones wouldn’t. What would Thorin think? And how long would it take to explain his way out of this tricky situation, if he even could? The very _last_ thing he needed was to waste time making things harder than they already were!  
  
The Tookishness inside him shoved the growing Baggins panic to one side and took firm charge. He tugged on Thorin’s hand, realising now that he had had hold of it this entire time.  
  
“Thorin, how about we... go somewhere quieter. For a rest, I mean.” He racked his brains, trying to remember all the days he’d spent playing in these very woods as a child, searching for elves and pretending to have adventures. “There’s... I think there’s another clearing a short way off. Smaller than this one, but it’ll be peaceful. We can...”  
  
Bilbo realised abruptly he had no idea how to finish that sentence and shut his mouth with a snap. Urgency was starting to course through his veins— he could see Bofur approaching, the children in tow— but if it showed on his face or in his desperate attempts not to bounce on his heels, Thorin didn’t seem to realise. If anything, he looked relieved.  
  
“Yes, perhaps that is best.” He squeezed Bilbo’s hand. “Lead on then.”  
  
Bilbo did, as fast as he dared and hoping that Bofur didn’t realise he’d seen him. He plunged through the crowds, heart as firmly in his mouth as it had been that very first night and gripping on to Thorin’s hand perhaps a little tighter than he’d intended to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that's been split into two, with the second half coming up next. I'm going to be offline entirely for a few days over the coming week as I'm off on a short adventure (or holiday, but adventure feels more appropriate here)! So I'll leave you with this for now and more on its way soon!
> 
> Thanks again for all the reviews, comments, feedback, etc, and thanks to [serenbach](http://archiveofourown.org/users/serenbach/pseuds/serenbach) for the beta-reading and encouragement. :)


	13. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bilbor, I must go, but I will not go without you.” he said, quietly and clearly. “You are my One, and I could not bear to part with you now, not ever.”
> 
> It took Bilbo a moment to find his voice, and when he did he hoped desperately that it didn’t squeak quite so much as he suspected. “I-I... sorry? I don't... what does that mean?”
> 
> He felt that he knew, even before Thorin spoke.

He didn’t dare look around at Thorin, nor linger too long on the faces of anyone they passed by. _Goodness knows what they’ll think_ , Bilbo’s mind remarked snidely, _the king disappearing off into the bushes with some stranger! So much for avoiding gossip, I suppose._ He hoped that his braids were doing a good enough job of masking his burning ears from behind so Thorin might not guess what he was thinking.  
  
He was relieved once they disappeared from sight amongst the trees and he could instead focus on retracing the once familiar little path to the place he’d used to play with his cousins. As they drew nearer, he slowly started to loosen his grip on Thorin’s hand, and released it altogether when they rounded the last few trees.  
  
Compared to the area being used for the ball, this clearing was really little more than a gap in the trees, certainly smaller than it had been in his memories. He’d hoped there may be a fallen log or something where they could perch to rest whilst talking, but there was nothing— they would have to stand.  
  
But it was peaceful, just as he’d remembered, with the hubbub of the celebrations little more than a murmur through the trees. The grass underfoot was thick and dotted with flowers making the most of the sudden opening to the sky. Bilbo glanced up, noting distantly that it was nice to be away from the fireworks for a moment to be able to better see the stars.  
  
He took a deep breath, gathering up every last scrap of determination that he had, but it was Thorin who spoke first.  
  
"Bilbor, we must talk."  
  
He turned to face him. It was then, looking at Thorin, that he realised that he would never be able to say anything.  
  
"Yes. Yes, I-I suppose we must."  
  
"This is the final ball.” Thorin’s words were almost matter of fact. “The celebrations end tonight, and after that we will return to everyday life.”  
  
"You'll go on to Belegost. You'll... leave the Shire, right?" Perhaps Thorin meant to let him down gently. Perhaps this was for the best— it would certainly be the easiest way forward, considering the painful lump that had risen in his throat. Thorin would tell him that this had all been very pleasant but that everything was now at an end, and whatever foolish ideas Bilbo— Bilbor— had conceived well, he was very flattered but there was no way anything could ever come of it, he was a king after all with responsibilities and a whole kingdom of people to lead and put first and—  
  
Bilbo's mind was reeling. Certainly this would be the easiest way forward.  
  
So why did it feel just as bad?  
  
He had to shake his mind back into attention to catch Thorin's next words. "–rrect. We must press on next week if we're to stand a chance of reaching it before winter comes. Many of our people are not trained warriors. Some are children. I cannot risk us being left in the wilderness come winter."  
  
_Our people._ Bilbo could almost have smiled at that, so bitter did it feel. _They're not my people, I'm a liar, a fraud._ The words rose up to the back of his tongue but he forced them back down. He couldn't do that to Thorin— how would he ever understand? Better they part as friends than nothing at all, surely. It would be the kindest thing for both of them.  
  
“Of course not,” he replied, “Thorin, I... I understand. You need to be with them. They need you.”  
  
He supposed he should be proud of himself for managing a smile, but it barely seemed to matter. Perhaps it might comfort him later on, during those long lonely nights in front of his fire with his books and the endless silence around him.  
  
“No.” Thorin said. The bluntness of it made Bilbo draw back in surprise.  
  
“Sorry, I don’t... I don’t quite follow?”  
  
Thorin shook his head. Bilbo could see frustration tinging his expression, but it seemed to be directed inwardly again. “You do not understand. I mean...” He heaved a sigh, and then suddenly stepped forward, his hands reaching out to grasp Bilbo’s before he knew what was happening. “You are included in all of this.”  
  
It took Bilbo a long moment to realise what he meant, and when it struck him he felt his jaw drop. “You want me to follow you to Belegost?”  
  
Another shake of the head. Bilbo felt pinned to the spot by those eyes. “Not follow. Come with.”  
  
Thorin’s hands were warm and heavy in his own. This was another thing that Bilbo knew he’d remember forever after, the feeling of strength hidden under work-roughened skin and the sharp press of rings against his own bare fingers.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Come with me to Belegost, by my side. I would not have you travel alone or with anyone else. My sister and nephews will welcome you with open arms.” ****  
  
“You... you told them about me?" Bilbo's mouth felt terribly dry as guilt built up inside him. Until now, he'd only thought of the nameless dwarves crowding around Thorin as being of any risk to him if rumours sprung up about them. He’d never even considered what his family might think. Gossip passed quickly enough amongst hobbits once a new event or scandal occurred, and Bilbo was willing to bet it wouldn’t be all that different for dwarves, especially if they were on such an important journey. But family had a way of remembering things far longer— what if they looked at Thorin differently forever after, once he returned to them alone?  
  
“My sister, aye, but not the lads. I've not spoken with them only because it was right to speak with you first. My sister, she... well, truthfully, she guessed.” He must have seen something of Bilbo’s growing panic reflected on his face, because he continued insistently, “But she agrees entirely, as would any dwarf here! It is not right that you live here alone. You deserve to be amongst your people!”  
  
_Surely there’s some way I can make him understand... damn, damn, damn!_  
  
Tentatively, he tried, “My family...”  
  
“Family?” Thorin scoffed bitterly. “They can hardly call themselves family after all they have done to you.”  
  
“N-now, wait just a moment—” Bilbo felt a spark of indignance within him, as though Thorin were some old gammer in the marketplace, still tutting over his mother’s adventures and his father’s scandalous choice to marry her. He felt immediately like laughing at how ridiculous it was.  
  
Fortunately or not, Thorin seemed already too angry to notice. “They keep you here, isolated, knowing nothing of your heritage, nothing of any craft... you do not even speak our own tongue!”  
  
Bilbo squeezed Thorin’s hands, trying to reassure him. “But I've told you, it's OK, I don't mind! I am fine, Thorin, really, I think perhaps you—”  
  
“You hurry away every night, so fearful of what might happen if you do not make it back home on time. I've seen you around everyone here during the last three nights, Bilbor. One would think you'd never seen a single dwarf before! Or that other dwarves mean fear and pain for you.”  
  
Bilbo was painfully aware of each rattling beat of his heart, feeling a kind of guilty numbness settling in at the knowledge that Thorin was entirely unaware of just how close to the truth he’d come whilst also being completely wrong in every other respect. He tried to lick his lips.  
  
“Thorin, look—”  
  
“You do not deserve that, ghivashel. No dwarf does.”  
  
Bilbo stared at him wretchedly, completely lost for what to say. After a long moment, Thorin sighed heavily. The tension didn’t drain entirely from him, but instead seemed to be pushed backwards, taken over by something weary yet urgent.  
  
“Bilbor, I must go, but I will not go without you.” he said, quietly and clearly. “You are my One, and I could not bear to part with you now, not ever.”  
  
It took Bilbo a moment to find his voice, and when he did he hoped desperately that it didn’t squeak quite so much as he suspected. “I-I... sorry? I don't... what does that mean?”  
  
He felt that he knew, even before Thorin spoke.  
  
“It means that I love you.”  
  
_Oh._ It was like the moment Thorin had greeted him that evening, only now everything had crystallised into the words that he’d tried to force down so deep inside himself that he would never find them.  
  
“Dwarves love only once. That you did not know even this... did you never expect that someday, someone might love you?” He sounded broken. “Bilbor, ghivashel...”  
  
Bilbo couldn’t hold that gaze, as sad as it was, and instead found himself looking at their clasped hands. He thought of these hands in his, not just in the rush and bustle of the party or in stolen moments like this, but during long leisurely walks and easy, unhurried talks over the dinner table.  
  
He thought of thick leather boots beside the umbrella stand and a long dwarvish cloak hanging with the coats.  
  
He thought of long summer evenings sat side by side on the bench beside the door, pipes in hand, and cosy winter nights huddled together before the fire.  
  
He thought of waking up every morning to that unexpected smile, that startled laugh, dark hair strewn over the pillows and warm blue eyes and a deep rumbling voice that called him by endearments he recognised by tone alone.  
  
He thought of Thorin and himself, and then of the silence and solitude that was waiting for him at home that very night.  
  
Bilbo closed his eyes. He felt like crying. This was just too cruel. But even so, he couldn't stop the words from coming out.  
  
“I love you too.”  
  
He didn’t dare open his eyes again, but there was no need; his every other sense was all too aware as Thorin stepped closer. Bilbo’s breath caught as one of Thorin’s hands unwound itself from his. His thumb gently traced his bottom lip, the curve of his cheek, before settling on his jaw. In one instant he was leaning in close, closer even than they had been during the dancing, so close Bilbo felt they might merge into one another and never separate; and, in the next, his lips were on Bilbo’s.  
  
For a long moment, it was as though the world had narrowed down to just the two of them. All Bilbo could think of was how _gentle_ Thorin was being, how lightly he was touching him, almost as though he was half expecting to be told this was a step too far, as though he was waiting uncertainly for some sign that this was alright, even after Bilbo had echoed him.  
  
And then, all of a sudden, Bilbo’s mind caught up and he realised that there was absolutely no way he was about to let this moment pass. Bilbo’s hands shot out, one tangling itself in Thorin’s fur collar and the other arm snaking around his waist to drag him closer. Thorin seemed all too willing to go along with it, leaning further in as Bilbo grazed his lip with his teeth, tangling his fingers in Bilbo’s hair and deepening the kiss.  
  
When they eventually parted, it wasn’t far, both of them gasping for breath, Bilbo reaching up to press their foreheads together as Thorin had done to him earlier. Thorin was smiling, seeming somewhere between dazed and disbelieving, and despite everything Bilbo found himself mirroring him.  
  
A strange prickling sensation ran across his skin. It took Bilbo a moment to realise that it wasn’t from the kiss.  
  
There was an explosion from the clearing. Bilbo almost leapt out of his skin, looking frantically and wide-eyed past Thorin back in the direction they’d come, trying to make out what the sudden rush of voices were saying past the trees.  
  
“Peace, ghivashel... it’s just the fireworks starting.” Thorin’s voice was low and soothing. His hand rubbed slow circles on Bilbo’s shoulder, but Bilbo barely noticed.  
  
It was midnight.  
  
“I-I didn’t hear the horn tonight—” He winced as another loud bang sounded, followed by a fading fizzle and several loudly appreciative calls.  
  
“Of course not. The horn draws the events to a close, but the celebrations on the final night go on until dawn.” Thorin said impatiently, as though it were entirely obvious, as though it were entirely unimportant. His hand rose and, gently but firmly, turned Bilbo’s face back towards his. “Bilbor, listen—”  
  
But Bilbo couldn’t listen. He could barely even hear him over the blood roaring in his ears and the panic building in his chest and the slow tingling energy creeping through his bones.  
  
“I have to go.”  
  
He knew that afterwards he would be sure it had been difficult to tear himself away from Thorin, but right there and then it all came too easily. He jerked backwards, pulling his arm back from Thorin’s waist. Stunned, Thorin tried to grab hold of it but Bilbo was already stepping backwards and all he got was the fabric of his sleeve slipping through his fingers like sand.  
  
“No, wait—”  
  
Bilbo held up both hands, placating but not daring to do as Thorin asked. His stomach lurched so suddenly that he almost doubled over with it, hoping in the next second that Thorin would assume he’d just caught his foot on something.  
  
“Please, _please_ , don’t follow me!” he said, hoping that Thorin would do as he begged. “Thorin, I—you— just forget, OK? I— I can’t—”  
  
Thorin moved towards him, reaching out. “Wait, _please_ —”  
  
The way Thorin’s voice caught so desperately on the _please_ broke whatever parts of Bilbo’s heart had been holding on. He shook his head furiously, trying to get rid of it from his ears.  
  
“Thorin— I can’t, I... I’m sorry, OK?”  
  
And with that, not daring to pause any longer, nor trusting himself to say anything else, he spun around and ran.  
  
“Bilbor, wait!”  
  
He was already well within the trees by the time he heard Thorin move. Perhaps Thorin hadn’t really expected him to run, perhaps it was the adrenaline building in him, perhaps it was some remnant of his very hobbitish knack for flight and hiding in the face of threat. Whatever it was, he didn’t stop to consider it.  
  
_Go, go, GO!_ His mind was screaming at him. _Get away, go,_ run _! You can’t let him see—_  
  
He staggered from tree to tree, desperately clutching at trunks and low hanging boughs in a vain attempt to steady himself. The world was spinning. His hair was hanging in his eyes and then, bit by bit, falling away.  
  
He barely knew he was falling until his palms hit the ground and the air was forced from his lungs. A stray branch, perhaps, or maybe a loose rock— but no. In the next moment, cutting through the fear and panic like a knife, he realised his feet felt like they were on fire.  
  
_These blasted boots!_ He forced himself to roll over and bring his left foot up so that he could fumble at the laces with stinging fingers. His breath came out in ragged gasps; he could hear Thorin crashing through the undergrowth. _Bloody Gandalf, why couldn’t he just... why now, why didn’t I keep track of the time! Damn it!_  
  
After what felt like an age, he was able to wrench the boot off and turn immediately to the next—if the growing agony wasn’t enough of a warning, he could see his left foot already returning to normal before his very eyes despite the dim light. The leather of his remaining boot was straining terribly at the seams.  
  
_And what will Thorin think if he sees you here, fumbling around over bloody shoes? Get a bloody move on, Baggins! If he finds you, what on earth will he think?_  
  
The laces were cutting in to his bleeding hands, yet no matter what he did he couldn’t quite seem to get a proper grip on them. He muttered and swore to himself, barely even noticing the slow grinding of his bones or the way his beard was falling away in clumps, and forced his fingers under the crossed laces to tear them loose.  
  
The laces weren’t the only thing to tear— in one terrible, awful moment he heard the ping of stitches, the groan of leather, and in the second before he finally managed to get free of it, the dwarven boot had split open entirely under the force of a fully grown hobbit foot.  
  
For half a second he stared wide eyed at the remains of the boot in his hand, before Thorin’s voice came to him again, so startlingly close he dropped it in fright.  
  
“Come back!”  
  
He scrambled to his feet, grabbing up the left boot almost without thinking, and crashed through the trees, half stumbling, half thrown by the force of the transformation.  
  
He could hear Thorin in between the fireworks, clear as day, shouting after him.  
  
“ _BILBOR!_ ”  
  
Bilbo ran.  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [serenbach](http://archiveofourown.org/users/serenbach/pseuds/serenbach) for the beta reading and encouragement, and thank you to everyone for all the lovely feedback. :)
> 
> Currently, this is as far as everything's completed- the next chapter is in progress! Because of some real life stuff, it may be a bit slower going, so thank you for your patience with this, I really appreciate it. In the meantime, you can also find me over at [tumblr](http://synchronyshattered.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
